AN: Nobody ever likes to hear these theories, but Dr. Crane is right. Clearly-we have whole channels dedicated to murder. And don't lie, there is something-a child, a lover, a hurt against your own self-that you'd kill for. You may not know it yet, but everyone's got a button.
EveApplefield-You ain't seen nothing yet! Grammar, Scarecrow... Grammar, shmammar. That's not a word. Yeah, but the eye twitch you get when I do it is funny.
Forbidden Moons-I'm good at what I do, child. Also, people are by nature very stupid and thus easy to train. Especially when you're the only person they see for weeks.
E. Vedica-Oh, it's you. Be nice. I am nice. Sometimes. Uh-huh.
Jonathan Crane knows two things about people, knows them as surely as he knows the sky is blue.
One: everyone, from the oldest vegetable to the youngest squalling brat, is morbid. People don't have a morbid streak, they are morbid. They feed on others' pain, no matter how hard they deny it. Hypocrites, all. Though their denials fit in well with known psychology tactics: accuse others of what you do yourself.
Two: everyone has something they'll kill for. Some people have a lower threshold, others develop a taste for it, but everyone has something. Power, love, lust, fear…most people never find that trigger. The world they live in is safe, by and large. Must be nice.
He's enlightened, has been for years. He'll admit to lingering, watching an inevitable hit-and-run with a mild, that's why you don't text and drive. Murder? He's got a taste now (even it is mostly an unfortunate side effect), but his trigger, once, had been survival. Nobody could fault him that.
As a side effect of this knowledge, he knows nobody wants to admit it, because such an admission would knock them from their moral high ground and into the black cave with monsters like himself. Please. 'Monster' is just a word for that which they don't understand…or don't want to.
So he's decided to prove his point.
It's taken work, nearly a year's planning and set-up, but he's got what he needs in the end. Subjects-nice, ordinary people. He checked their Facebooks, their criminal records (nonexistent, he wanted them as innocent as possible), shadowed them for weeks to make sure they were what he needed. An appropriate location-a warehouse by the docks. Easy to clean, nice and roomy, easily locked. And then, because experiments must be recorded, a news crew. He lured them out with an anonymous tip (people are morbid, like he's always said) and then, well…
People are such funny little things. So predictable. They fancy themselves clever, above the animals, but he wouldn't have made it this far without their limited reactions. Scared? Run or fight. Curious? Go and see. Always. There is a set number of actions that people will preform for an individual circumstance, and those are simple to predict once you sort them into a personality box.
He gathers up the keys to the shipping crates downstairs-he'll need to let his subjects out, of course-and rubs a speck of dust off his glasses. There. All set.
He strolls downstairs to where the film crew is setting up under the watchful gaze of the hired help. The reporter has gotten herself together, at least. Good. It's Gotham, he wouldn't expect anything less.
"Are we ready?"
"A-almost."
"Good."
It hasn't been long. Fifteen minutes or so. And Batman will be unavailable, because it's the middle of the day-an ungodly hour to be up, with his schedule, but such is the price one pays for uninterrupted work.
There are three shipping crates in the room. All of them have muffled screams coming from inside, but he's only interested in the one on the far left. That's got the motivation in it.
He opens it up, metal raw against his fingers, and lets his shadow climb the far wall before he steps inside and calls it back. It smells in here, of fish and urine and Gotham City, but that's all right, he's not lingering. Now, where is that little-ah!
His arm shoots out, grabbing the thin, pliable arm from the shadows of the crate, and jerking it up.
"Come along, child. It's time to go."
The child in question is dripping snot and whatever other liquids children under the age of ten seem to ooze from their pores. The lengths he goes to for science…he deserves an award, not a cell.
No matter. Nothing a little hand sanitizer won't fix.
He drags the crying blob out of the crate and resists an eye-roll at the collective look of horror the news crew is wearing. Oh, please. Without things like this, they wouldn't stay in business. They should be grateful for this exclusive opportunity he's giving them. He could, after all, have kidnapped a lesser news crew, like Fox. They would have appreciated this more, but they also would have tried to twist it, idiots that they are.
He hands the child off to a nearby mook to keep track of, squirts a liberal dot of sanitizer into his palm, and turns to the reporters.
"Well?"
The reporter swallows, darting glances towards the still-crying child, and nods.
"Y-yes."
"Good." He rubs a few specks of dust off his glasses-oh, glasses, it's like they're designed to be as inconvenient as possible-and straightens up. "Let us begin."
The cameraman pushes a few buttons and gives him a shaky nod. At least the boy's mostly gotten himself together-his blubbering was growing old. Granny may have been onto something with her, 'I'll give you something to cry about!' way of thinking.
"We're on."
He gathered, by the nod. If they're hoping he smiles, they'll just have to be disappointed. This a serious scientific study and will be treated as such.
"Hello, Gotham." he says politely. The Joker can act like the most obnoxious being on the planet, but he was raised better. "I'm pleased that you agreed to participate in my experiment on human nature this afternoon."
Great. The reporter's starting to sniffle again, keeps glancing over at the child. He's never been more tempted to murder someone. It would at least stop the crying.
"I will be testing two theories today. One, the more obvious, that everyone, man woman and child, has something they'll kill for. You'll deny it, I'm sure, but trust me when I say that it's true." He pauses to let that sink in. "The other theory, which you are proving now, is that you are all ghouls. You enjoy others' pain, don't you? You're sitting in front of your screens in rapt attention, waiting to see what I'll do."
He motions for the crew to follow as he walks towards another shipping crate.
"This contains a college student, come up from Florida to study law at our fine university. No criminal record to be had, volunteers at animal shelters, feeds the homeless on Saturdays." It makes him sick, and he'd searched up and down for some proof of a murder. But there'd been nothing. They'll see if that remains so. Survival is a powerful motivation. "You can come out now, Mark."
"Please, man, just lemme go-"
"We'll see. Come here."
Mark makes his way out of the container, legs loosely shackled and hands bound. He's not much the worse for wear, really. Considering how annoying Jonathan finds him, he should be grateful he's not hallucinating.
"Thank you. Say hello to the cameras, Mark."
"Please-"
"Never mind, shut up, Mark."
When he continues to blubber, Jonathan sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and kicks him over-his bound limbs make him an easy topple. There. At least that'll keep him busy for a minute.
The final shipping crate contains the one Jonathan's really betting on, if only from his own personal experience.
"This crate," he informs the crew, "contains the mother of that charming little tot over there." He points, and the camera obligingly swings over for a minute before coming back. "Jennifer Williams, native Gothamite, widowed thanks to one of my colleagues. That over there is her sole surviving relative."
He opens the crate to a stream of swears.
"-ing asshole, when I get to you, if you've hurt him-"
"Come here, Jennifer."
He needn't have asked-tripping and stumbling, she tries to rush him and barely avoids falling at his feet.
"No criminal record here, either. These two are possibly some of the purest people in this city. And one of them may well kill the other."
Both Mark and Jennifer have gone quiet and are eyeing each other. Let them get used to the idea. Most people don't like having their morals threatened.
Jennifer speaks first. He's not surprised-motherhood seems to have the unfortunate side effect of 'supreme holier-than-thou'. He wonders why, sometimes.
"I'm not killing anyone."
"Very well." And now he does smile, a fractured thing, and holds out his hand to help her up. "You may go. But your son will remain here with me, as my test subject."
She stiffens and doesn't take his hand. He withdraws it and turns back to the news crew.
"To the victor goes their unimpeded freedom. If you refuse…I'm sure I can find a use for you."
But they won't refuse. He knows they won't, because he knows people.
He retrieves the boy from his employee and the man goes out to uncuff them before returning, relieving Jonathan of the child, and accompanying him to a small office on the upper floor. The child begins to wail in earnest.
"Shut him up."
"But boss-"
"I'm not asking you to kill him, I'm asking you to silence him. Now do it."
Below, Mark and Jennifer are circling each other warily. Jonathan flips on the small TV and hunts up the right news station. Sure enough, it's on (he would expect nothing less, they know his reputation) and he makes himself comfortable with this new, up-close-and-personal view. Then, when nothing happens and the brat is still crying, he rises.
"Give him to me."
A swift slam against the glass accomplishes two objectives. One, stuns the little brat into silence. Two, galvanizes his subjects into action.
To his surprise, it's not Jennifer that attacks first, it's Mark. Well, well, the golden boy has a dark side! And it is vicious-he's grabbed his handcuffs to use as a garrote.
Beware the nice ones, indeed. Though he wasn't so very different, once. Before it was pecked out of him.
His idiot henchman is starting to fidget and Jonathan thinks snidely, who did you think you were working for?
"Leave."
"Boss?"
"You are making concentration extremely difficult, now get out."
"But-"
"Get. Out."
The man ducks out and clatters downstairs. Jonathan spares a glance to the boy, lying huddled on the floor.
"Looks like it's just you and me, kiddo." he says. "I hope your mother loves you…"
Jennifer, once she's recovered from the shock of being rushed, isn't proving to be too bad of a fighter-she's gotten Mark to the ground and appears to be trying to strangle him.
Adrenaline is an amazing thing-Mark throws her off in what looks like a controlled seizure, tackles her to the ground, and starts slamming her head into the cement.
After a few minutes-a few minutes too long, probably, there's not much left of the Let-Me-See-Your-Manager haircut, the skull's too fractured-he stands. Jonathan releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding and goes downstairs.
"Congratulations."
"I can go? I can leave? You said I could go-"
And now here comes the fun bit.
"I lied."
"What?" The fight visibly drains from Mark's shoulders and he sinks down besides the bloody pulp on the floor. "But you said-oh my god, what have I done-"
"Proved a point." He summons his mook. "Take him to the basement, I'll visit him later."
As Mark's being dragged away, the reporter finally swallows and whispers, "You're a monster."
"So they tell me." He eyes her crying crewmates and starts towards them. "But that door, back there? It's unlocked. And you didn't even try for it. So tell me…who's the real monster here?"
They try to run. He sighs and flicks his wrist. They go down screaming.
As he knew they would.
THE END