VICTIM NUMBER THIRTEEN
"have you heard of Frederick Hunt?"
i.
(james gordon)
MONDAY MORNING, half-past nine a.m. and time for the third coffee of the day —black, no sugar.
Wayne's secretary —a long legged blonde girl with an operated nose— had told him that Mr. Wayne and Miss Laughterfield would arrive soon but that had been twenty-six minutes ago.
There had been seventeen victims, Miss Laughterfield was number thirteen —unlucky number— and she was the last one he would question about the Scarecrow and the experiments he practiced on them. Out of the seventeen, only fourteen were still alive —two had died because of the fear toxin and another had committed suicide after those events— and all of them went regularly to therapy, were planning on moving out of town or purchased a new security systems for their houses out of fear. All of them except Miss Laughterfield, victim number thirteen.
He knew the protocol, he would shake hands with her and tell her the GCPD was doing everything they could to sent Scarecrow back to Arkham where he wouldn't be able to hurt them ever again. He knew the protocol —and yet he forgot it when he saw her.
She was laughing.
The elevator door opened and Wayne seemed to be explaining a funny story about his time in Europe and Laughterfield was laughing. All the other victims were terrified when he spoke to them but to Sara Laughterfield —the pretty face— it seemed as if nothing memorable had happened two weeks ago.
"Ah, Commissioner Gordon. I see you're already here." said Bruce with a cooky smile, his suit was probably more expensive than Gordon's house.
Sara offered him a polite smile —not kind, just polite— which Gordon mentally added to the list of important things to know about victim number thirteen. "Good morning."
"Oh, don't bother. Sara here is a firm believer that no Monday morning is ever a good morning." He said to which Sara chuckled softly, then he added "I don't understand why you complain so much about Mondays."
"Well, that- dear Bruce, is because -unlike me- you don't have a real job." She finally spoke, her voice was like velvet and there was a smile threating to appear on her lips.
She was wearing high heels and a blue shirt, expensive. The operated blonde brought a black coffee to Bruce and a latte macchiato to Sara —she had memorized their orders. "Isn't she funny?"
"Yes, Mr. Wayne. Uhm- could I talk to Miss Laughterfield alone?" He fixed his glasses a little uncomfortable to discuss such traumatic experience in front of Sara's boss.
"Bruce can stay, everything I will tell you he already knows." It was not a suggestion but an statement, she trusted Bruce.
"Alright then. Miss Laughterfield, if you could tell exactly what you remember about the place where Scarecrow kept all of you... I know it's a terrible experience but-"
"A basement, artificial light and yellowish windows, most of them were cracked. It was a big place since all the animals were roaming lose. And there was this awful smell, something chemical and, and lavander -which is weird." She was drinking small sips from her latte macchiato while talking about it as if it was sometimes as casual as the last futbol match or the weather. "We where somewhere in the Narrows because at some point we heard an explosion very close, after the Scarecrow set us free. Bruce told me that explosion had been the Joker going Friedrich Hund."
James was taking notes but he stopped when he heard that name —Friedrich Hund— he stared at her looking for something but without knowing what he was looking for.
The Scarecrow's most recent criminal activity had been the one Sara had been victim of. It was a test of a new variation of his gas —now in liquid form— to different people who had, specifically, phobias related to animals. Then he had taken some animals form different pet shops and from the Gotham Zoo and made those affected by his toxin remain in the presence of the animal they feared the most. Victim number thirteen had a dog phobia, and yet —and yet she hadn't reacted to dogs, she had attacked people.
It was uncommon for her to recall with such detail the traumatic experience —most victims could only remember terrible beasts and darkness— but he was not the one to judge. If Sara could bring any light to the matter, he would use her.
"I'm sorry to interrupt -there's a problem in HR. They need you, Miss Laughterfield." The blonde spoke, shy in presence of her boss but with the desire of being acknowledged by him.
"It seems our conversation will have to end Commissioner Gordon -I hope what I've told you is useful for your investigation. Stacy here will give you my personal phone number and address in case you need to contact me in the future -now if you excuse me..." There was a hint of pride in her voice, she talked with authority and demanded nothing but respect —she wouldn't settle for less—and there was chemistry between her and Bruce. He smiled at her and Sara touched his arm in an affectionate gesture before leaving.
"How old is Miss Laughterfield? -is she from Gotham?" He asked once Bruce and him were alone, there was confusion in his eyes.
"Uh, yes, she's from here. I think she's twenty-six, but I'm not sure. Why are you asking?" Bruce had the looks of an spoiled rich boy but his eyes had a darkness not many noticed. Sometimes James forgot who he was talking to —Bruce Wayne, son of Thomas and Martha Wayne.
He hesitated wether it was appropriate to share his concerns, there was no solid proof that there was something wrong about Sara Laughterfield —just her strange reaction to Scarecrow's drug and a feeling in his guts. "Have you heard of Frederick Hunt?"
"Yes, he was a pyromaniac and a terrorist from the 90's. Why is it relevant?" He questioned.
"He was a veteran from the Army and a police officer once, that's why what he did is even more terrible. It was during the downfall of Gotham, after-" he was going to say 'after the Wayne's death' but then remembered he was talking to that very same boy who had seen them die. "After the city was corrupted by criminality. Frederick Hunt put a total of eighty-two bombs around the city -and during seven days Gotham became a minefield."
"A washing machine, a traffic light, your neighbor's car- everything could have a bomb in it. We ended up catching him but the masacre he had left behind..." He had to stop speaking, trying to erase the memory of blood and fear everywhere, too many dead bodies to count them. It had been something he would never forget, never. "He had no reason to do it and we thought he was insane, but they did some tests in Arkham and they decided he was not. I was in the armoured car that transported him to Blackgate."
There was no cocky smile nor comments coming from Bruce, he was listening very carefully with a seriousness not many men were able to achieve. Gordon continued with his story after the secretary handed him Sara's address and phone number. "He talked to me during the ride. He said that people always wrote and pronounced his name wrong -in the news, the papers, and even in the police report. He said: my name is not Frederick Hunt but Friedrich Hund."
Friedrich Hund.
"It's German." He added to clarify why people said it wrong, the pronunciation was almost the same between the two names.
"I didn't know that, I don't think most people know that." Wayne said which could perfectly be translated to —then why does Sara know it?
iii.
(jonathan crane)
THERE WERE BITE-MARKS on his neck still unhealed, they would leave a scar. His left arm was broken and he had a fracture on his ribs —in conclusion, he was in pain.
He could taste the blood on his lips while the voice inside his head made his pain even more unbearable. He had slept for three days after the incident —and he had had abominable nightmares each and every one of them.
The experiment had been successful, the experience itself not so much.
The liquid drug was —following his hypothesis— more reactive to subjects with an animal phobia when they were in presence of the physical animal instead of an hallucination created by their terrified minds. That was in most subjects but there was an anomaly, a black sheep —an exception.
Subject 7OT4662, Sara Laughterfield.
As he usually did before he had his medical licence revoked, he had archived documents of all his subjects. Basic information about them (age, gender, blood type, medical history, race, phobias if any, allergies...) but with odd subjects he also had written notes about them. His notes were usually about their reaction to the toxin but his notes about Sara Laughterfield were specifically about her.
He read out loud. "Violent reaction to the serum, seems to be perfectly aware of her surroundings -unaffected by the presence of dangerous dogs. Hostile towards humans."
Then he had transcripted the words she had said under the influence of the liquid fear. "There was a kid and a dog. The dog killed the kid, I killed the dog."
That and what she had said before attacking him —before biting him and beating him. "Kill the dog before he kills you."
In his medical opinion Sara Laughterfield —with the toxin inside her blood—seemed to have shifted her dog phobia toward human beings, turning her violence towards them. It was very strange, but interesting nevertheless. "What are you hiding Miss Laughterfield?"
She had a dog, it was an extremely aggressive Doberman who was going to be sacrificed for killing its previous owner before Sara rescued him. Sara chose it because she was afraid of the dog —therapy through exposure.
Very risky to do so with such beast.
Although, when she had attacked him she had been worst than a rabid animal, bloodshot eyes and a brutality only presence in deranged beings. That was the reason why he had opened the doors letting them all go —otherwise she would have killed him.
He was sure of it.
He sat down reading his notes again while he drank some tea, white, not too strong. Sara was born and raised in Gotham, there wasn't many information about her childhood but that was habitual in Gotham. She studied Law in New York where she graduated with honours, soon after she started working at Wayne Enterprises, at Human Resources. She also seemed to have a close friendship with the owner —Gotham's favourite orphan, Bruce Wayne.
Her apartment was somewhere in the City Hall District, maybe one day he would pay her a visit —he needed more information for his investigation.
That day would not come.
Police officers from the GCPD were in the streets of the Narrows, and they had found the location of the abandoned perfume factory —with a soft lavander smell— where Jonathan Crane had set his office. Usually his subjects were not aware of their surroundings therefore he didn't expect to be found —What a surprise when they did. "GCPD, we know you're here Crane. Come out."
He groaned in pain. "Fuck."
His tea was left on the table forgotten. His wounds still hurted but he needed to do something to escape, he was not going back to Arkham —not without a fight at least— he grabbed some gas pumps and out his mask on.
The Scarecrow was ready to steal the show.
iii.
(sara laughterfield)
IT WAS FOUR A.M., Tuesday —too late for a drink, too early for a coffee— her tv was still on and all her plastic plants seemed to be dying. Her dog was barking in the living room and the guy who was fucking her was squealing, like a pig.
"Choke me -oh, Susan." Moaned the pig. Her name was not Susan, but close enough —She didn't really care what Mr. Pig called her— There was a shift and she was on top of him, ridding his dick while choking him. If she applied more pressure Mr. Pig would die in her arms —perfect for Thanksgiving— with his dick still deep inside her. She would enjoy that way more than sex.
Maybe Mr. Pig would enjoy it too.
He was so close to the climax he started to cry, his mind was lost in the limbo between fear and pleasure. Sara —that was her name, not Susan— was not so lucky.
In her analytical opinion pleasure and pain were not in the body but in the brain, and to feel either one had to stop thinking —Sara couldn't do that. She always seemed to cogitate too much and that had made her numb. She was thinking about the sound of the television coming from her living room, about the blood-thirsty beast she called dog, her seemly dead plastic plants, the new IKEA catalogue that would come out next week, —and, above all those things, she was focused on the fucker she was choking and the sounds he was making.
Oink, oink, oink.
She suddenly wanted to kill him— to slaughter him like the pig he was. But then his release came and the noise stopped.
It was four-eleven a.m. and Sara wanted a coffee, or a drink, maybe both. She got up and watered her plastic plants —as stupid as that is— in a useless attempt to give them life, but they were inanimate objects —just like her.
Her dog had no name, it was just 'dog'. Sara knew it had killed its previous owner and she was intelligent enough to never keep her guard down when in his presence, just in case. The dog hated her and she hated the dog, but they tolerated each others existence. Only that.
Her kitchen was clean and perfect, out of a magazine —or better yet, out of an IKEA catalogue— she sat in the 'Bernhard' chair and played with an item she had purchased impulsively at six a.m. some other night, it was called Slap Chop and it was completely useless, it had given her the satisfaction she could not archive through sex because of her numbness.
Whenever Sara turned the tv on her mind stopped working —it was kinda liberating— and simply absorbed all the trash tv as a form of masturbation. The cooking contest with Gordon Ramsey, the cheesy rom-com, the Argentinian soap opera of which she couldn't understand a single word —although she cried and laughed as if she was the main character and not the viewer drinking vodka and coffee at half-past four in the morning.
Pleasure and pain were the most thrilling human emotions —and now they were for sale.
Sara Laughterfield was a pretty face, and underneath... To be honest she wasn't really sure what hid underneath. What she knew for sure was that it had been three weeks since she had succumbed to numbness, —twenty-one days, five thousand and four hours.
And all of that was because the man on the news.
"The Scarecrow has been sent to Arkham Asylum a few hours ago, Commissioner Gordon has refused to talk about the criminal and the tragedy he caused three weeks ago." Three weeks— She remembered everything as if it had happened a few days ago, the pain, the fear. Real fear —not that shit they sell on Amazon—, which made her be eager for more. She was getting tired of her pretty face, she wanted to see what was underneath.
Blood is never as beautiful as they tell you it is, it is red and hot and tasty —not in a Thai food kind of tasty— it tastes like blood. Nothing ever compares to it.
She bit her lip frequently —to feel the pain, to taste the blood— and the wound hurted every time she drank her lemonade for breakfast. There's satisfaction in fear and pain, a strange difficult-to-digest satisfaction she enjoyed deeply.
Sara was terrified of dogs— it didn't matter if the dog was the kindest, she could only see its sharp theeth —dogs could kill if they wanted to, and some did want to— just like her dog. During the hours she had been subjected to the deliric effect of the experimental drug she had seen Jonathan Crane as a rabid dog —and yes, she was afraid of dogs, but she also hated them.
That's why she had tried to kill him.
She had been different, she had been completely terrified —afraid of everything around her— but somehow, that fear had made her furious. Her mind blinded by rage had made her reckless. She had tried to kill him, the Scarecrow, and she had almost succeeded —if she closed her eyes she could still feel her hands around his neck.
She drank her coffee with Vodka while purchasing through a phone call another useless object from the tv, the pig was snoring loudly and she was thinking about murdering the Scarecrow —maybe one day she would have the chance to, maybe she would, maybe that night she would kill Mr. Pig out of boredom, maybe she would not.
Maybe one day something would snap inside her beautiful head and she would finally be able to see what hid underneath that pretty face of hers.
AUTHOR'S NOTE—(hey I'm sorry this story has been on hold for so long but I didn't seem to find the inspiration to write it even if I wanted to, I've reorganized my ideas and I'll try to update soon. I hope you've liked this chapter, bye)