Dagger of Fear

Most people would never guess his college minor. Crane had majored in psychology, obviously, but even Nightwing, when it came up as he was dragging him back to Arkham, had seemed surprised to find out what he'd minored in.

Folklore and Mythology.

Crane didn't think it was that far of a leap, to be honest. He was a relentless bookworm with a lean towards less modern literature. It would have been more surprising if he hadn't read the classics.

On top of that, he found legends and folklore fascinating. Sue him.

It was through said legends that he stumbled upon a delicious tale; One he though was worth a look in person.


Owen couldn't believe what he was seeing. Neither could Monroe, Griffin, or Isaiah, from the look of it.

They'd all arrived to the open tomb at the same time, not stopping to scuffle or even question why the tomb was open to begin with.

They'd raced down the steps only to spot the silhouette of a tall, scrawny man holding up the dagger.

The man, whoever he was, held the dagger a little higher, and they all fell to their knees.

His dad was on the stand, confessing to everything. He smiled – smiled! – as he recounted in detail how the security guard bled out in front of him. The judge gave a different ruling, this time. Death by firing squad.

He felt something pass by him, but couldn't see it. And just like that, it was over. He was back in the tomb, lagging behind everyone else as they dashed back up the stairs. But it was no use.

The man was gone.


It was remarkably – almost concerningly – easy to book a round trip to Mongolia from Gotham city. What was a little harder was getting a private flight back.

No matter. A few well-placed nightmares and he was flying alone in first class with a weapon in plain view.

It was unusual. He never really got to see what people's greatest fears were. He could guess, of course. Screaming "They're in my eyes!" probably meant bugs. Kneeling on the ground and crying was more vague but was most likely rejection or death. You pick up on those things when you're in the business of causing horrors.

But this was different. He'd seen, in vivid detail, the assorted fears of every single person there.

The adults had all had pretty much the same vision, which Scarecrow found a bit funny. They'd seen each other, holding a trident and commanding legions.

The kids were more varied. Murdered parents. Murdering parents. Bigotry. Rejection. All pretty standard.

Still, it was valuable data to have. And this would give him an edge over the bat, which was always welcome.

Gotham, here he comes.