CHAPTER 37:
"Enter A New Fear"

In a dark, rat infested hovel, Dr. Jonathan Crane dabbled in his new small, makeshift laboratory that he set up in a one bedroom apartment he recently rented. He cursed himself for not making his Fear Germ more formidable. How on earth had a cure been found for it was beyond his understanding. No one should have been able to devise one.

But he could think of only one man who had even the slightest inkling to the cure: Nightwing.

The crime fighter said he had read a medical article in passing and it said that gold particles in minute doses could help cure cancerous-like ailments if used properly with other elements. It also helped with mental illness related diseases, which was what the Fear Germ really was—designed to play on the deepest, darkest fears of people, using bacteria warfare.

Nightwing thought he had been alone when he passed on his theory to someone on his cellphone. But Crane had listened in, with his own methods, and then was when he knew he had to eliminate Nightwing. He had the perfect opportunity—infecting him with the Fear Germ in Gotham General Hospital, when one of his contacts informed him the hero was recovering from a serious injury.

He bribed a police officer, and then paid a poor sap from Bludhaven, who needed money, to pretend to take him to GGH under the pretext of drug recovery, then poison the man who Crane had been told was the crime fighter. In the end, the idiot not on poisoned himself, and nearly died, but it was later revealed, Crane had been given misinformation. It was a case of mistaken identity.

Richard Grayson was not Nightwing, and was merely recovering from a nasty fall, whereas he hit his head and had to have surgery. He was poisoned, nonetheless, but recovered without explanation. It was like he had the mental capacity and the will to drive off his Fear Germ, something equivalent to a psychotic bubonic plaque, and cast it away, like it was the common flu.

Nevertheless, a cure to his Fear Germ was found soon after that. The media said a doctor at GGH had discovered it through tireless work and elimination process.

"I'll just have to devise a better fear drug, one where there is seemingly no cure," Crane said. "But they'll still pay me for one!"
He was never one to laugh, laughter was the best medicine to depression and fear, as the saying went—it created chemical endorphins that drove away negative feelings—but he chuckled to himself anyway knowing next time he would be successful.

He sat at a table and poured two chemicals into a beaker mentally calculating each percentage to include to make a new mixture, then lit a bunson burner that sat on underneath. The flame tickled the bottom of the glass as it began to warm the liquids, bubbling it. With his knowledge of bio-chemicals in phobia and psychopathy, he knew he could make pretty much anything he desired. And an even more deadlier fear germ was needed, one that would bring Gotham City to its knees.

Once a renown doctor of psychology, he knew what it meant to run from one's fears. His father tried to toughen him up, but he was so scared when he was a child, he almost took his own life. But as he grew, he entered the medical field, and vowed to study the characteristics of phobia, and to one day find a cure to his own. He thought he had found one and injected himself with it.

Instead, he found a new method to study fear—with first hand accountability. He decided, it was more effective, and better, to get a more thorough understanding of the true concept of fear with live experimentation, generating it on the human psyche, administering it live, and then sitting back and observing his subjects to see how they handled themselves and how they came up with a solution. Cause, Effect and Education, and it was the best way to learn, adapt, and grow. In truth, he was doing humanity a favour.

When he first began his experiments, he stayed in the shadows. Then he created the Scarecrow persona to branch out and subject people to his newest drugs in public, watching them wallow in the effects. But he got bored with one subject at a time, and he wondered what it would be like to see mass hysteria after one of his drugs was administered to an unsuspected populace? Of course, this not only caught the eye of the Gotham City police, but also Batman—Gotham's "White Knight" of vigilante justice.

Over the years, he had had several entanglements with the Caped Crusader and his ever growing list of annoying sidekicks, each time, they foiled his plans to blanket Gotham City in an ever-lasting cumulus of fear.

And this time, it was no different. And he cursed himself for his own lack of insightfulness.

But how did he know that a simple medical article in a backwater journal on the medicinal properties of gold would ruin everything? And that Nightwing—whom he assumed was only some stupid aerobatic jock—would read it, and understand it?

He underestimated Nightwing, but he won't make the same mistake in the future.

Around him sat items of assorted liquids and powders like an old medicinal alchemist lab and he used several of them to experiment with for his latest drug—this one would be the next big deadly drug. He knew what everything could do, either stand alone, or how it could be most efficient as a combined compound. With his brilliant mind, he knew where everything was. Everything had its place and there was a place for everything here, his mind remembering where he had placed things to get easy access to them.

Gotham City would have no other choice but to pay him a king's random for the antidote for this new drug. And yet, that's what he asked for as payment for a cure to his Fear Germ. Now, he would get nothing.

But he would not let the fear of failure stop him. He was better than that.

Just then, as he was poring another liquid chemical into the beaker sitting on the bunsen burner, the door to his apartment, his personal sanctuary, burst open, hitting the back wall, and standing at the threshold holding a rifle was the person everyone knew by reputation, generating his own brand of fear: The man known as Deathstroke, the Terminator. He was recognized instantaneously by anyone familiar with the criminal underworld by his black and orange mask, which was his own signature moniker.

The rifle Deathstroke branded was a semi-automatic and it could easily cut down a person, shredding them to ribbons in seconds.

The apartment complex Crane decided to hide himself in after his reign of terror in Gotham had ended was in a bad part of town and he thought no one was stupid enough to bother him here. The average person would steer well clear of this place due to the people that reside within: drug dealers, recently released prison inmates, and other degenerates. When he came here, the landlord assured him completely anonymity and amnesty to do what he wanted. Money was no object as long as he was left alone. So much for that.

Crane bounced off his stool, stood on his feet, and said, "What the hell are you doing here, Deathstroke?"

"I knew I would find a gutter-rat like you hiding in a dirt hole like this," the mercenary said. "It's true what they say: money talks."

Crane backed up as Deathstroke entered further into the apartment. "What do you want with me?"

The mercenary looked around and waved a hand to his masked face as if he could smell the mixture of chemicals scattered around, an assault to his senses. Throughout the years in dealing with chemicals of every sort, Crane had lost much of his smell.

"Didn't anyone warn you about the effects of inhaling your own drugs, Crane?" Deathstroke rotated his rifle to his other hand, as if attempting some sort of intimidation factor. "You're such a hard man to find as of late," he then said.

"There's a reason for that. I'm a wanted man."

"I know. But a cure for your Fear Germ isn't anymore."

If he could see it, Crane knew he would probably see a smile on Deathstroke's face. For whatever reason. The mercenary seemed happy that one of his own—one of Batman's Rogue's—had failed. But he never truly thought of Deathstroke as an ally against Batman. Deathstroke had his own issues with the Caped Crusader and he was a loner in his plight to destroy the Dark Knight. And yet, on occasion, he would assist Batman for his own reasons.

Crane sneered. "Yes, I know. And whoever found it is going to pay. I'll make them pay for ruining my plans to turn Gotham City into the first pathogenic infected megalopolis with me as its saviour. I would've be both its disease and its cure."

"Ironic that what you asked for, a king's ransom, is the very thing that saved Gotham—gold," Deathstroke said, snorting a chuckle.

Crane slammed a hand on the table next to him, then remembered about his experiment, and was thankful the reverberation didn't knock it over. In his moment of anger, he nearly spoiled his new drug, and the explosion, if the beaker fell off the burner, would probably destroy half the room.

"You're coming with me, Crane," Deathstroke then said. "I have an unsettled debt and you're it. He wanted me to collect you and bring you back for some well deserved justice. You can either walk out of here under your own power or I can drag you out screaming. And trust me, the landlord to this place won't report a thing. As I said, money talks."

Crane frowned. "Why? You're a mercenary for hire, not someone's lapdog. Have you turned turncoat for good?"

"Think of it as payback for your crimes."

"From whom?"

Deathstroke reached into a pouch attached to his belt and putted out something black. Then he pressed a button on it and wings ejected from its sides like that of a bat. But it was not a Batarang. It was one of Nightwing's knock-off's, that he christian a Wingding.

Crane gasped. "Is that…"

"Yes, it is. And if you ever try to assault my former student again, I'll kill you."

Despite Deathstroke's previous offer of an option of letting Crane walk out on his own or being dragged out, he then decided on his own, and whipped the Wingding at Crane, striking him squarely between the eyes, knocking him down.

Crane groaned, half-unconscious. The sound of Deathstroke's boots came closer as he lay on the floor.

Then he felt his body being lifted into the air, and his vision bounced, his eyes crossed after being hit, his body limp, arms dangling down below his head, as he looked at Deathstroke's feet. Deathstroke switched off Crane's bunson burner before heading to the door with Crane over his shoulder.

"No, my experiments," Crane mumbled.

He tilted his head slightly and saw Deathstroke looking down at him.

The last thing Crane heard and saw before it was light's out was the mercenary mocking him, and saying, "Your days of magic potions are done, Merlin," before he was punched in the head. Everything went black.

x x x

When Slade walked out the back entrance of the rundown apartment complex carrying Dr. Jonathan Crane over his shoulder, he headed to a waiting dark Sedan parked in the back alley, and dropped the man into the back seat, quickly handcuffing, gagging and blindfolding him, then spraying him with a little of Red Robin's "special" memory gas, the same that he used on Dr. Hugo Strange, to erase his short-term memory, before getting into the passenger side, and taking off his helmet.

In the driver's seat sat Pixie and he smiled at her. She leaned over and gave him a peak on the cheek. "Easy job?" she asked.

"It was the easiest kidnapping I've ever done," Slade replied. "When we drop him off to the authorities, we'll let them know where Crane's hideout is, and tell them they need a HASMAT team to clean up all the chemicals."

"You know, you didn't have to do this," she said. "We broke Hugo Strange out of Arkham Asylum to help Tim Drake with his medical

condition, that was supposed to be your debt repaid for not being able to fitful Dick Grayson's original request to get Crane."

Slade nodded, and looked back at his catch. With the way Crane looked, he had all the appearance of a mob informant turned rat. "True," he said, smiling. He looked back at her. "But after what I did to Bludhaven, I thought I sort of owed Richard a little extra. Besides, who would I be if I didn't keep my word? Unreliable. And for a man in my line of work, that is a job killer."

Pixie smiled, and then kissed him long and passionately. Slade felt so young with her. They say, you're only as young as you feel. With Pixie, he felt his best again. He never in his wildest dreams that she would ever love an aging man like him. She had only been an informant a few weeks ago. Now she was his confidant, a partner, and a lover.

When she broke the kiss, he licked his lips of cherry lip gross. He breathed out a little hot air. It was a good thing she wasn't chewing any gum, or he would have probably swallowed it. Smiling, he said, "We better tell Chicken Little the job is done."

Pixie rolled her eyes in humorous disbelief. "That's Mother Hen," she corrected.

"Oh, but they're both part of the same fowl family anyway." He smiled at the inside joke. "Birds of a feather flock together." Then he shook his head. "Here we are, talking about hens and chickens, and we have a Crane laying in the backseat."

Pixie shook her head and chuckled.

She picked up her cell phone and dialled the secret number that Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne butler, gave them. It rang twice, the standard, respected length, before Alfred picked up. "Mother Hen, Mission Accom—"

"Terrible news!" Alfred interrupted. "Forgive me, but Red Robin is missing. The GPS on his motorcycle has also ceased working."

Pixie told Slade that Tim was missing and then switched to speaker phone, sharing the phone between them.

"How long ago?" Slade asked.

"Three hours," Alfred said worried. "He was heading back home after depositing Dr. Hugo Strange at Arkham Asylum. He called in just before leaving, then nothing. I request that you please find him."

Alfred told them Tim Drake's last known location according to GPS, then asked if they you knew where that was. Slade said yes.

Pixie sped out of the alley, with Slade navigating. But when they arrived at the location, a back road near Arkham Asylum, in a forest area, all they found were charred and ripped pieces of Red Robin's cycle, or what was left if it, as if it had been blown apart by some massive explosion, or a high powered weapon, with a black starburst blast mark at its centre—and quite a lot of blood.

Slade and Pixie split up, and looked around the surrounding area on foot, but found anything, not even a scrap of clothing that may have indicated that Red Robin had been in a fight. Other than the blood, there was no sign of Tim Drake.

Slade took a closer examination at Red Robin's cycle, while Pixie again searched the immediate area in case any clues were missed. After a little while, she said, "Slade, come over here and take a look at this."

He looked up, then went to her as she stood on the edge of the road. Etched into the trunk of a tree were two letters. At first, she thought it was some lover's etching to prove their love, but there was only one set of initials. The standard etching normally had two sets of initials, and either a heart or some other symbol to follow. But only the letters were present—EB.

Slade's eye's widened and his face went ashen. Pixie noticed his trepidation, and asked, "Slade, what's wrong?"

"These are the initials for EB, as in Everybody's Assassin; a nickname in my network of contacts. AKA: KGBeast (pronounced: KGB East). He comes from Russia—old Russia, before the fall of the USSR and the rise of the Soviet Union. He's ruthless, even by my standards, and a cold, blooded, psychopathic killer. He's very intelligent, cunning, and crafty. I should have realized this before…" He turned around and looked at Red Robin's cycle and the surrounding carnage. "This is indicative of his work, his M.O. I also happen to know he doesn't like the term EB—thinks it's an insult—but if he used it here, he's obviously sending a message to whoever finds it. As in, he is everybody's assassin. And if he's come out of hiding, things have just escalated."

Pixie gave him a curious look. "Why do you look so nervous?"

Slade took a moment. "When I first heard his name and learned he was involved in Richard's situation, and that Jake Handles had hired us both, but kept us separate from each other as failsafes in case the other failed, I kept my composure, because I thought after Richard's recovery, that was the end of it. Handles plan to destroy Richard had failed, EB was paid for his part in the scheme, job done. He doesn't like sticking out. I tried to gather intel on his possible whereabouts, but he was no where to be found. After that, I put him out my mind and focused on other things. But now, after finding these initials here, I have no doubt now Bane is involved."

"Bane? Do you mean that large, Spanish, wrestler guy?"

Slade gave her a glance. "That large, Spanish, wrestler guy, as you call him, is extremely dangerous, and psychotic beyond words. There was talk that EB and Bane were in league with each other and it looks like those rumours are true now. More so, other rumours are floating around that it was originally Bane who issued the hit on Nightwing because he wanted to make Batman suffer. If he could kill one of Batman's closest allies—and the very first Robin—then that would settle a few out-standing scores between the two. Pure and sadistic revenge. And that's what Bane is. He's a walking time bomb, both mentally and physically—especially with the Venom drug he uses—in moderation—to pump up his muscles to give him extraordinary abilities and strength. The Venom drug works internally as a super adrenaline simulate, in laments terms, but it is a million times more powerful than any protein-booster on the market. Bane's metabolism has been genetically modified to handle it. It's otherwise poison to anyone else. It's even poison to him, if he doesn't take a counter-agent for its toxic effects."

"So, how do we find him? I think we owe it to Red Robin—Drake—to at least help him. We're in it this far."

"You don't find Bane, he finds you. With the right bait. I'll put out a few fielders and see what I can find out. In the meantime, we have to tell Mother Hen. He needs to know that one of his 'chicks' is in terrible danger."

To be continued...