A/N: This chapter takes place right after Jonathan Crane escapes from Arkham. It involves his thoughts and a few memories as he's running to somewhere safe...but wherever might he find safety in Gotham?
Please review.
"One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged."
~ Oscar Wilde
Chapter 2: Shadows
It was raining—pouring, sleeting rain that pierced the skin, which of course was not a hard task in itself, seeing as the asylum uniform provided little more protection from the downpour than a second skin. He felt frozen to the core, but he must keep running. If he did not…he would be taken back into Arkham…back under his cold, unfeeling hand of command. And he would not let that happen. He could not! This was his one and only chance for freedom, come to him with a desperate show of strength that had rendered the escorting guard immobile, unconscious while he grabbed the keys and ran. He did not even stop to think, only used the keys to slip out through a back door of the asylum and run with all the might he could muster. The smallest twinges of guilt stung at him, thinking of all those he'd left behind in Arkham, left to suffer continuously under Bolton—probably more so now that he had escaped. But Jonathan Crane was not a man who allowed guilt to get the better of him. He had taken his chance and he would use it to buy his freedom. Would he forget those he'd left? Most probably not…but remembering them and physically returning to their rescue, or to suffer alongside them was certainly not in his plans. He didn't quite know where he was running to, and fortunately, he had a good mile or so before he would reach civilization and need to worry about such matters. Right now, all he was focused on was running until he physically could not do so any longer.
"I'm telling you, it's not plausible."
"And as the professor, I am telling you, the student, that it is plausible. Perfectly so, in fact."
"And as a thinking, intelligent human being, I am telling you it isn't."
"Why must you question everything and anything that comes out of my mouth, Miss DeLaine?"
"I'm not questioning everything. If you recall, Professor, there are several things that I do support and agree with you on. This does not happen to be one of them."
"It is plausible and accurate."
"It is not."
"It is."
"It is not."
"Are they still going at it?" Dr. Long grumbled, passing by the open door from the lounge, cup of coffee in hand, "They haven't stopped with that bantering for the past hour."
"They're stubborn," his assistant answered cheerfully, "And Miss DeLaine is quite the debater, Doctor. She's quite interesting, in fact…you should debate with her sometime."
"I'll leave that to Crane." He replied shortly, "I've no time for such inane bickering."
Inside the room, professor and student were sitting facing each other in the near center of the room. Crane was sitting upright upon the armchair he kept with him, while Iris was seated upon crossed feet on the small couch. She was dressed simply and comfortably in jeans and an overlarge sweater, sliding down her angular, narrow shoulders to reveal the black straps of her camisole. Her sandals presided next to the open door, allowing her to set feet upon the soft cushions of the couch without invoking her professor's complaints.
"For the hundredth time, it is. Did no one ever teach you to mind and respect your elders?" Crane asked, exasperation all but dripping from his words. Iris rolled her eyes carelessly.
"Let's not bring life lessons into this, my dear professor," she replied briskly, "And were you or were you not the person who told me to question all that I hear and read, not just mindlessly absorb and swear by it without asking questions and digging deeper?"
"That does not apply here, my dear."
"Oh, I think it does," she answered, "For the last time, the Queen and Bishop can move diagonally; the Knight moves in an L. I'm sure you would very much like it if you could move your Knight diagonally and thus have a sliver of hope , but alas, you have boxed yourself in…and your little horse is all mine." The chess piece slid effortlessly under the direction of her fingers across the board, knocking over the horse only to have two long fingers swipe out and grasp it, "And, dear professor, that is check and mate."
He sighed heavily, sitting back and rubbing his temple. "Best eight out of nine?" Iris asked, her expression nothing short of smug. He answered her question with a momentary glare.
"Fine," he finally replied, "But this time, you are playing black."
"Black or white, try as you might," she sang lightly, twirling the board with an idle gesture, "You'll never win this night."
The rain had not stopped pouring down; if anything, it was far more intense, blinding and piercing as it fell from darkened skies. He slowly slumped against the wall of an alley, the brick rough and unfeeling against his soaked clothes and numb flesh. He could feel, hear his heart, pounding violently against his ribs to the point of extreme pain. He was weak, loathe as he was to admit it, he couldn't deny it. Numbness was creeping into his limbs, weighing them down as though infecting them with the purest form of lead. Taking mere steps was to rack extreme, nearly excruciating pain through his body, shaking him down to the foundations. But he must keep his head clear and alert. Now he had reached civilization, on the outskirts of downtown Gotham. And here, he became prey just as much as he had been in Arkham, when he was the security chief's prey. The tiniest sighting—man, woman or mere child—would alert the police, and then of course, the Batman himself. Fortunately, the shadows were in abundance this night, and they would become his allies. Creeping, slipping through them as though one of them, he made his way through the city's maze of alley ways. He could not suppress the resentment that boiled within him, almost scalding. He was the Master of Fear, the God of Terror…and here he was, skulking about to avoid detection at all costs. He should be forcing the miserable fools of this wretched city into the shadows, frightened, pleading with the darkness to cloak them, hide them away from his eyes, else they would sacrifice their sanity—and more importantly, their very lives. But that must wait. For the foreseeable future, he must keep to the shadows only, avoiding detection at all and any cost. He would never go back to Arkham…he was more than certain he would never return from those cold walls if he did.
Of course, this was not the first time he had felt so incredibly vulnerable; as an adult, perhaps, although several of his encounters with Batman had left him feeling nearly so. But even those experiences paled in comparison to the feelings that the last few months under Bolton's iron, suffocating grip had conceived. He had fallen so incredibly low…the Scarecrow reduced to little more than a child awakened from his nightmares by his own screams…howling, crying for mercy that would not come…only to realize he had not been dreaming at all…rather, he was still trapped within his nightmares. After all, the nightmare which is life itself was one that no one could awaken from…
"Filth…so like your mother, aren't you?" the voice was cold and deadly quiet, just as it always was. But when it lowered to such a quiet whisper, the child knew what was coming. His heart began to beat hard and fast, praying silently she would be merciful.
But mercy was not a word with which she was familiar.
"I believe it may be time we paid the chapel a visit, my literary young friend." There it was, that dreaded word…the name of the very location that was the source of his never ending nightmares, his undying horror, "Kindly dress for the occasion. You know which suit!"
The pale, skinny youth could not stop his hands from trembling as he opened the dresser and pulled out the suit—a plain red shirt, plaid vest and dark tie, all uniformly tucked under a crisp blue Sunday suit. It had to be neat and straight, she would stand for nothing less. His eyes darted to the closed door, where he could all but see her standing. Hands folded quietly, pale skin against stark black dress, eyes cold and unfeeling. Slowly, he opened the door with a shaking hand. He could not help himself.
Her hand was an iron grip on his upper arm, ensuring his scrawny form could not rebel and run, "I warned you to stay out of the forbidden room, didn't I, boy?" It was always "boy", or "child"…she rarely called him by the name which she had christened him with.
"Please, Granny…" he whispered, desperately trying to plead his way out of his sentence, "I-I found the book."
"Lies. The demon's tongue. Never mind, we'll cleanse his wickedness away."
He could see the chapel rising closer, a looming monster staring down with unblinking, unfeeling eyes, incapable of conceiving anything but fatal misery and agony for his victims. "Grandmother wanted a real chapel, of course. But Granddad would have his birds. Still…she held service here every night. You should have seen it in its glory, child. The pride of Georgia gentility…a crystal palace reaching to the heavens! Exotic fauna imported from all over the world! Snow white doves! Alabaster egrets! Regal herons! Like God's winded angels. White…pure…cleansed…"
She was unlocking the door now. His mind screamed to run, to flee somewhere…anywhere. But her grip was unrelenting; it tightened all the more when she felt his body jerk away, thick nails biting through his suit. The door opened, and she stepped inside, eyes raising up to the gaping, skeletal rafters of the aviary, that dark look of nostalgia in her eyes. This place was the only thing she smiled at, knowing what it would do to the child locked in her vice grip in mere moments. "That was before the market crash, of course. And Grandfather Keeny blew his brains out in the fruit cellar. Mother hanged herself soon after…leaving us to fend for ourselves. Me, Marion…her wayward daughter Karen…and now you, Jonathan."
"P-Please, Granny! I-I'll be good!" he begged. The cold stone floor of the chapel met his palms as he skidded against it, flung unceremoniously by an uncaring hand—a hand which was meant to nurture and care for him, but it had only contempt and misery to offer him.
"The chapel went dark after Mother died…cold and empty like the grave. Leaving us alone…with no one to watch over us…protect us…from the darker thing outside." She said quietly, turning to close and lock the door, turning to leave him to his fate once again, "T'was God's will, you see…his great lesson in how to face our childhood fears…"
"Granny, please!"
"…just as it is your lesson now, Jonathan." The door fell closed with a final clang, the lock sliding into place with an ominous clack.
"Amazing grace…how sweet the sound…."
"Granny, PLEASE!! I can't stand it!! PLEASE!!!" he was on his knees, pounding, begging against ears that had no intentions of answering his desperate pleas for help. The wood of the door was as unfeeling as her heart, cold and stiff against hot, sweat-slicked palms; against a child's voice, begging and sobbing for mercy. "PLEASE! Don't do this! Please don't do this again! I'll be good! I'LL BE GOOD!!!"
A moment of heavy, painful silence passed.
And then he could hear the wings…beating, flapping, pounding closer and closer…closer…
His feet slipped upon wet stone, sending his bony frame down upon the cold ground. He landed in a puddle; water splashed over his chest and upon his face. The rain had nearly blinded him, even if he blinked, sight was near impossible. He tried to get up, once, twice, only to fall repeatedly back into the same puddle. The pool of water was nearly spent on his skin and clothes now. His hand weakly raised up, catching the edge of something. Stone, carved into a 90-degree angle…a step. He could feel another edge pressing against his heaving lungs…he must be lying on a stone staircase. He tried to make out where he was, but in the sleet, all he could see was the dark, looming outline of a manor. It was not unlike the one he had lived in throughout his childhood…very similar in fact. This place felt familiar, though, and not in the ominous way the building of his Georgian youth had. Someone important lived here…but who was it? He had known he would end up here, lying upon these steps, waiting for someone to come and see him…but why here? Why did he trust he would not be betrayed by the resident of this place? What was it…?
Someone opened the door. A gasp, something falling to the ground with a light thud…footsteps, light and quick like a sprite, hurried, rushed to his side…he could see legs, two knees as the figure fell down upon them…there were two hands…feeling for a pulse, turning him over on his back. There was a voice. He knew that voice….he knew…
All went black.
