"Hey Boss?" a small, weasel-like voice broke out over the shadows of the dimly-lit theatre, its owner trying to hide the nervous quiver to his words and failing. "We're got this new batch almost done. You want us to start bottling it now and box it up?"
There was a figure standing at the edge of the stage, overlooking the empty seats as if he could imagine a captive audience in front of him. However he was barely visible while he hugged the very edge of the shadows, until he turned his head and the movement of his body gave him away. A dry, raspy chuckle came from him, not at all helped by the strange phlegmy noise in his throat that just made everyone's stomach clench listening to it. "You can if you want," the figure's voice hissed, each word scraping out of his mouth like sandpaper. "Just know that hot liquid being poured into cold glass can crack it, and then the solution will be all over you."
The small group of men winced and looked to one another, then to the table they had set up in the middle of the room. The bright lamp on it provided the only real light in the theatre, like a little halo bathing them in a soft glow while they concocted visions of hell inside of the beakers and equipment strewn across the surface. There was beaker of clear liquid was a centerpiece to it all, hardly 500 milliliters full, yet worth more than a hundred times its weight in gold to those who were willing to pay for it. Despite how ordinary it seemed, the men clutched their masks closer to their faces and stared at it with fearful, suspicious eyes. It sat serenely over a small burner which was heating it just enough for the liquid to be hot and small wisps of steam to rise from the surface, but not to boil. Boiling would ruin it.
And Scarecrow's toxins had to be perfectly prepared each time, or else.
"And if that doesn't kill you," Scarecrow continued, his shoes tapping very softly against the fake wood of the theatre floor, "then I will."
His eyes, wide and very green as they peered out of the holes cut into his burlap mask, glared at them all unblinkingly. The whites were tainted with a haze of yellow and his blood vessels stood starkly against them, but his gaze was clear and sharp and missed absolutely nothing.
They all nodded, for a moment looking quite ridiculous and sycophantic to Scarecrow. A part of him wanted to come over and knock the beaker off the table just to see what their reactions would be. But that would be pointless, a pleasant five minutes of amusement and giddiness as he would watch them panic, and then they would all be dead. Too short and boring. The toxin on the table was simply too potent to give any sort of meaningful, drawn out reactions to take note of and study, victims would just simply panic until they died. Just a drop or two diluted into a gallon of liquid was more than enough to send any victim into nonstop hysterics for fifteen hours, and that wasn't even counting the after effects and all else that would take place.
Perhaps when they were all done, he could indulge his fantasy for a bit. No point in wasting two weeks' worth of effort in a single moment of childish behavior. Who did he look like, Joker? No, no, they were going to finish the mixture, package the final solution for their customers, then leave. By the barrel for gangs who wanted an edge on their rivals in their endless battles for territory, the cheapest and the weakest of the products he offered. But then in contained spray canisters, in vials meant to explode on contact, even in little darts to put inside tranquilizer guns-that was where the real money was-and where his very nice customers came out of the shadows. Even Two-Face was supposed to drop by later, although Scarecrow would make him eat a vial of finished toxin if he tried to get out of paying by doing his inane coin flips again.
Of course with no true answer given, just a threat and "for them to decide," the lackeys decided to take the safer bet and took the beaker off the burner so it would cool, topping it with a lid so no moisture whatsoever could escape. A smart move, even if a time-consuming one. Gotham's most popular theatre was not an ideal place to be, but it was the only place they could afford to be at the moment without getting caught. Anyone seeing activity inside of an abandoned building could report them to the police or, worse, gangs could show up to interrupt their work, and most places in the denser parts of Gotham tended to rub elbows with exactly the kind of people and establishments Scarecrow would rather not have around.
This place, though, was nice and quiet. A large parking lot around the building so there were no neighbors immediately nearby, and its back was facing a mall that had closed for the night. Nothing bad from that side, either.
Not that it ever truly stopped trouble, if it ever wanted to arrive.
The hours crawled by slowly, as Scarecrow and his "assistants" (he snorted at the term) methodically filled and labeled every container with the toxin. Twenty barrels, each with a squirt of toxin inside from an eyedropper, then onto the spray cans. Still a good squirt, but it was much more concentrated amount due to the smaller size of the cans, then filled with compressed gas which was a tedious, slow process that really was what took up most of the time when they were busy with this kind of work.
Scarecrow alone handled his own personal vials and darts. He sat in a chair by himself, carefully dipping a brush into a shot glass filled with pure toxin and painting the tips of his darts in it, and alternatively taking tiny glass vials and filling them up with half toxin, and half dilution. The most powerful and potent of all the mixes except maybe save the darts, and only he seemed to know the proper amount that was needed, all done by either memory or a method he knew in his head alone.
The night was dragging on past midnight and into the late hours when even the hardiest of bar hoppers were going to sleep when their work was nearing completion and they had stashed their finished products further back on the stage, away from any danger, prying eyes, and even potential thieves.
"There we go, boss," a large, burly man said who seemed to be in a constant state of about to explode through the seams of his suit, which looked to be about two sizes too small for him. "Should I start making the calls for the bastards to come pick up their stash?"
Scarecrow turned, once more standing upon the edge of the halo, and thus his eyes burned oddly under the shadow his wide-brimmed had threw upon his face. They seemed to be floating amidst the darkness. "Obviously," he said, his voice crackling upon the last syllables of the word. "Unless you wish to stand here all night?"
Just then, as if his words were some kind of cue for something, what little light was in the theatre cut off, plunging them all into a thick, encompassing darkness. There were swears and the sound of a glass breaking, as if the absence of light immediately lowered one's intelligence and caused them to stumble about like toddlers just learning how to walk. "Be careful!" Scarecrow hissed, digging in his bag for his night vision mask. "If any one of those vials gets broken I'll string you up for the crows to feed on!"
His heart was beating madly, despite his irritation at his and his attempts to remain calm. He knew who that was. There was only one perpetrator who liked to fight in total darkness.
There was a swish of fabric above their heads, and Scarecrow instinctively threw himself to the ground while trying desperately to shove his mask on over his face. In front of him and to the left he heard the sound of something hitting flesh and a loud grunt of pain, followed by a body crashing to the ground. "Hey!" one of the lackeys shouted, and others scuffled about, but it was obvious they were being soundly thrashed by their attacker.
Finally the mask was strapped in place and Scarecrow turned it on, bright green flooding his vision as the world became clear to him once more.
About ten or so feet in front of him he saw the figure he knew he would see, doing more or less what he expected. Batman ducking under the comically misplaced swings of Scarecrow's henchmen, the slits in his mask glowing bright as he wove in the darkness, and dispatching them with a well-placed blow that would send each other them sprawling into a heap. He had on some kind of full face mask, no doubt a protection against his usual toxin spray, but Scarecrow had something much more potent than that.
Scarecrow snarled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small vial and then inserting it into a special slot just above the mouth of his night vision mask. Darts wouldn't work here, he learned long ago that Batman was far too nimble and stealthy to really be shot at, and whatever he made his suit out of made him impervious to most projectiles unless it was a very lucky shot. Good thing the Bat decided to attack just after they got done cooking up a batch of new toxin, though. And this one he had prepared just for him, too.
"Oh look at who's here," he crackled as he stood up, his tongue rasping along his mouth dryly as he straightened up. "Do you think I'm afraid of the dark, Batman? Such primitive fears hold no sway over me."
"I don't need you to be afraid," Batman replied calmly as he turned, swinging a set of bolas in his hand. "I just need you to hold still."
With a snap of his arm he threw them, and Scarecrow leaped clean over them, as they were aimed at his legs. Too late, though, he realized that this was exactly what Batman wanted him to do, as he now had a second or two of being completely helpless while he waited for his feet to hit the ground again. Batman was barely a step behind his weapon, rushing forward as soon as he let them fly and crashing into Scarecrow just as he fell back to the ground, sending them both sprawling.
It was something akin to being hit by a truck, with such a wall of muscle and force trying to pin him down and keep his hands from going into his pockets for his toxins, but Scarecrow grinned despite the pain shooting through his body. "Too late, Bats," he hissed before taking a deep, rattling breath, and blowing through the mouth slot in this mask.
That was the trigger. It activated a special mechanism within his mask which used the vial of toxin as fuel and then blasted out clouds of toxin through two special spray devices on each side of his mouth. Simple, ingenious, and perfect for when his hands had no use, like right this second.
It caught Batman full in the face and the effect was immediately obvious as he seized up, fingers clamping down on Scarecrow's arms hard enough to bruise the bone, and began coughing. Just as Scarecrow hoped, not only was his attack so close there was little Batman could do to avoid it, but the toxins he had mixed into this vial were so overwhelming that it was impossible for Batman's mask to have filtered out every single bit of it, not without full scuba gear anyway.
"Having a little headache, Batman?" he chuckled, using all of his strength to curl his legs up and kick Batman off of him. He was proud of how far he managed to shove the Bat, with how heavy he was, and it was more than a little gratifying to watch the Caped Crusader stumble back and fall. He was still coughing and his hands clenched, swatting at phantoms that only he could see.
Scarecrow hauled himself to his feet, wincing at how much his arms hurt, and began slowly walking forward. "Tell me, Batman, what do you see?" he hissed as he approached. He picked up a metal bat dropped by one of his henchmen and kept approaching. "What visions torment your mind under my venom? I've always been dying to know."
But Batman was still a dangerous enemy, even under the effects of fear toxin as he had his wits about him and he rushed at Scarecrow, trying to knock him down again. But he was clumsy, on edge, and Scarecrow avoided the attempt easily by sidestepping and smashing his weapon down on Batman's arm. He was surprised the bone didn't break, but with the grunt he heard it definitely did some damage. He raised the weapon again but Batman pivoted, balancing on one foot while the other snapped out to kick him right under the chin.
It would have hit him under the chin, anyway, if he hadn't changed direction at the last minute and blocked the attack with the baseball bat instead of hitting the Bat like he wanted to do. The cheap aluminum bent like a spoon from the force of the blow and nearly hit him in the nose, while he was sent sprawling back. His arm flailed wildly and he managed to smack it against the top of the table, catching him from falling over yet it sent half of the equipment and glasses flying over the edge with a terrible crashing that half the city block could probably hear at this point.
There was a sharp, harsh pain in his arm and Scarecrow glanced down to see blood blooming across his sleeve and broken glass littering the top of the table. God dammit, some of these components were expensive. He jumped back up, tossing away his useless weapon while Batman ran at him again, his step surprisingly steady, and grabbed the first thing that came to his hands. It ended up being one of the stools which they had all been sitting on around the table, and he threw it.
Much to his surprise, Batman took the attack full-on and tripped over it, almost smacking his face against the floor as he fell. He tried to scramble up but Scarecrow was already ahead of him, taking a microscope and bringing it down on Batman's head. Sadly he was wearing a helmeted version of his mask, but there was still a most satisfying clang as it connected. "No, no, Batman," Scarecrow said, following up with a kick to the gut, which flipped Batman over from the force of it. He ignored the coughing of the vigilante and knelt down, fishing in his pocket for a vial of pure toxin. The night's fresh batch. "As much as I'd love to take you and pick apart your mind and listen to your screams for the rest of my life, you're too dangerous to let live." He uncorked the vial. "Just indulge me once, though, and tell me what you see with this." He reached to take off the mask.
Just then, a giggle echoed across the theater, stopping him cold. Even Batman seemed to notice something different, as even his coughing stopped.
"Who's there?!" Scarecrow demanded, jumping to his feet and whirling around, peering in every direction with his goggles. Nothing.
"Oh poor little Scarecrow," a female voice filtered in form the darkness, somewhere off to the left. But he still couldn't see anything. "Scared of little old me?"
Scarecrow readied one of his darts. "It is you in the darkness," he hissed, still looking. "Why don't you come out of hiding and see how brave your taunts are then."
Another laugh, high and girlish and it made the hairs on his spine rise. "Oh Scarecrow, it might be dark but I'm just fine," she said sweetly. "After all, what do you call a circus performer who sees in the dark?"
"What?" Scarecrow muttered, completely confused at this point.
"An acro-bat!"
Finally he saw movement, except he could barely follow the figure who was flipping across the stage toward him in such a dizzying display that by the time she was upon him it was too late to do anything. A kick landed high on his chest, sending him to the floor while the women flipped away back into the darkness. Scarecrow snarled and scrambled back to his feet, coughing, "Come back out here and fight!"
"Careful there, Scarecrow," the voice singsonged playfully. "Try not to trip over your own feet, with how big they are and all—"
"Enough!" he yelled, and could barely hear the steps behind him before the blow came to his shoulders, almost knocking him down again. This time he kept his balance and whirled, his fist flying but it hit thin air. A blur raced by him, hitting the back of his knee as it passed and this time bringing him down again.
"You're lucky you don't fit into my car, Scarecrow, or I'd drive you all the way to Arkham!" the woman laughed. "Sadly though, it's waaay too small for you. Don't worry, I called the police instead!"
Scarecrow grunted, but before he could stand up again, a weight hit his shoulders and he felt himself being pinned down. There was some kind of bar pressing on the back of his neck, holding him down while a pair of knees dug right into the middle of his shoulders, not only forcing him down but being incredibly painful while she did it.
"Get it?" the woman whispered in his ear. "Clowns, tiny cars?"
What the hell she was muttering about Scarecrow couldn't even begin to guess, but he retaliated by slipping one of his tiny handheld canisters out of his sleeve and spraying it at her face. Sadly she knew what it was, because she immediately jumped away before it could do any lasting harm. Scarecrow jumped to his feet, whirled, and—
Oh that explained all of the stupid circus puns. The woman standing in front of him seemed to be dressed in what was, for lack of a better word, a black and red jester costume of some sort, with a comically painted white face and a black mask around her eyes not unlike what Riddler liked to wear when he was out and about. She was twirling a pole in her hand and a wicked smile was on her face as she watched him move. "Good evening there, straw-brain," she said, giggling a little at her own joke. "Sorry to bust your little party you have going on here, but playtime's over."
"I'll cut that pretty little face off and wear it as a trophy," Scarecrow hissed, watching her eyes narrow just a little. Good, a spot to pick at. "And that's just where I'll start."
She rushed at him again, moving so quick it was hard to tell just where she would end up, and he could already tell that trying to predict her would be a headache. Her pole smacked his forearm as he tried to block it, then his ankle, then he managed to grab it and yank hard. Much to his surprise she let him have it, which made him stumble back as the force of his own strength caught him, and she took advantage of his misstep by flying at him with a kick.
They both ended up in a heap of tangled limbs that were flying around, he hit her side and she pressed her reclaimed pole against his neck again, nearly choking him until it was clear that she was the victor by her superior position of sitting on his chest. "There," she said, breathless and chuckling, "now you just—"
"Just what?" Scarecrow hissed, smirking and tapping the tip of his switchblade against her throat. The woman clearly did not see him pull it out, and went very still at the sensation. He poked her skin just slightly. "Up," he said, and she slowly got to her feet, her pole still raised. "Much better. Now you should feel privileged, I only use this on people who truly annoy me." He breathed in deeply, relishing in how her eyes grew wide under that mask.
A gloved hand clamped down over his mouth just as he blew, and panic filled him as his toxin backed up, the liquid pouring over the glove and into his mouth as the spray blasted it out and it had nowhere to go. He screamed and struggled against the hand, but an arm clamped around his chest and held him in a grip of iron while chemicals flooded his mouth and brain. His vision dances, mouths and eyes opening to look at him and goddammit he had completely forgotten about Batman why did he forget about the Bat—
He started wheezing, limbs twitching, and he collapsed in a heap as his legs refused to work.
"Oh my," she said as she watched him twitch on the ground. "That was, um, really great how you held him like that and, oh—" Oh no she said that out loud again, didn't she? She just barely managed to stop herself from facepalming.
For once, Batman actually looked confused. "How I...held him?" he asked, giving her a look.
In those big, muscular arms, and—"Nevemind," she muttered, glad that her white face paint stopped her blush from showing. "Here, I brought some rope. For tying. Tying him, I mean, oh for the love of—" she slapped her hand to her face, sighing at herself. She was going to kick her stupid brain one day.
Dang, he really had stuffed his toxins full of some freaky shit, hadn't he? Scarecrow was still twitching as they tied him up and it was really hard to get the ropes to hold him properly while they did so.
"Hey, thanks for tha—" Harley tried to say as she turned around to thank Batman, only to find him gone. She sighed. When he heard the sirens Batman had immediately yanked off Scarecrow's mask for "research" as he muttered and then went riffling through his pockets, pulling out all the vials he could before the police showed up
Except...she didn't think he was quite gone. As her eyes scanned around she found an exit to the roof suspiciously ajar. She wouldn't have bet on her life that he took it himself, but an invitation on the other hand...
She made sure to lock it behind her so the police wouldn't be suspicious, then she raced up the steps. God there were an awful lot of them. She had been honing her body with gymnastics for several weeks at this point and her legs still burned from the effort of hauling herself up several flights of them. New thing to check off her list, stair exercises because this was just unforgivable.
The door to the roof banged open, and to her shock and disappointment it was empty, but a second later she saw the figure crouched on the mall roof and understood. It was an easy leap, especially with her pole, and she ducked behind a gargoyle just as several cruisers came rolling around the corner.
She came forward, approaching the hunched back of Gotham's angel while he peered at the scene below just like one of the gargoyles he flanked. "Thanks for that back there," she said with a smile. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced yet. I'm Harley Quinn."
"What are you doing, Doctor Quinzel?"
She tried not to wince, but couldn't help it. Then again she didn't really choose the most undercover name for herself, but she was certain no one could recognize her through the outfit. She barely even recognized herself. "What did it look like?" she asked, trying to keep her voice as light and neutral as possible. "Helping you out."
"Getting yourself killed, more like."
His growl just made her temper irk a little. "And you weren't? I saved your life back there, too, you know."
He stood up. Gosh he was so tall when he did that, she wasn't going to get over that. It was like he just, unfolded himself somehow and became much bigger than he should have been able to. He had taken the lower half of his mask off, so when he turned she could see the grim twist of his mouth. "That is why you shouldn't be doing this," he said. "Even I make mistakes, or something happens that I don't expect, and I've been doing this for much longer than you have. You will just get hurt."
"Or, crazy thought here, we could work together and watch out for each other!" Harley snapped, crossing her arms and glaring up at him. He didn't seem nearly so angry or cold as he did in his previous conversation, but there was still a hardness to him that she just wanted to bash down with a hammer. "Like how we did back there? I saved you back there and you saved me, just like what two people should do in a situation like that!"
"Harleen, this is not the kind of life for you," Batman interjected, his voice stern. "I have Robin, and that's enough."
Not Doctor Quinzel this time, but Harleen. She felt her heart picking up as she sensed the weakness and the change, and pressed on. "Where is he, then? If he's such a trusty sidekick then why wasn't he in there with you?"
This time it was Batman's turn to look a little sheepish. That is, if his expression could be called that. It was definitely something related even if he still managed to be as cold as a rock while doing it. "He is here, technically," he said, as evasive as ever.
Harley raised an eyebrow. "Technically?" she repeated.
"It's very late. He fell asleep on the stakeout and I left him in the Batmobile."
Dear lord if that wasn't the sweetest thing she had ever heard—"Maybe you need someone who can stay awake all night, then," she said with a smirk.
He sighed and rubbed his chin, and there was something strange in the gesture that just made her heart leap in her chest. "No, Doctor Quinzel, I can't—"
She let out an explosive sigh and threw her hands up. "You are such a stupid, stubborn idiot!" she yelled.
She couldn't help it. She had no idea what her hands were doing until she grabbed him and pulled them both together into a crushing, demanding kiss.