02

Edward's resolve led him to deal with the situation as he always dealt with dangerous situations: He decided to run away.

As he was considered low-risk for the lack of mass murder on his criminal record, Edward Nigma had considerable influence with the guards of the asylum. Some thought him harmless, sad, or generally insignificant. Some found him sympathetic, or intriguing. Some even admired him. He also had the benefit of being fairly new to the asylum, and that was a novelty that attracted no little amount of curiosity. Using these sentiments and manipulating them with his smooth talk and empty promises, Edward was able to finagle his way into securing an escape before his "appointment" with Dr. Jonathan Crane.

However, one afternoon in the social room, Jonathan Crane was overheard to be saying, "How I hate it when they reschedule."

Jervis Tetch, the Hatter, looked at him, and chirped, "I'm late! I'm late!"

To which Crane replied,

"A diller, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar!

What makes you come so soon?

You used to come at ten o'clock,

But now you come at noon."

The two shared a laugh, and no one else heard. Even if they had, it would have merely been regarded as the usual psycho-babble. Only Nigma would have recognized the underlying threat in the childish rhyme.

Wednesday evening, it was arranged that Edward would be the very last to shower, and thus have the open stalls to himself. He was a low-risk patient, being of the non-murdering variety, and had only a single guard assigned to him. This guard was the one that had given him the crossword, and by now the two were friends (at least, the ignorant guard believed so).

There was an air vent that was unused this time of year that led from the back of the dressing area into the maintenance sections of the basements. The guard had left a janitor's uniform back there for Edward, so he could simply go through the vent and from there get out of the asylum.

Edward smiled to himself as he bathed, figuring it was his last shower in Arkham for a long while. He even washed his coppery red hair and pushed it back from his high forehead. He was actually tall, 6' 1", and had a lean body that had good, if wiry, muscle tone. Being one of the few non-deformed residents, he had had his share of trouble in the showers . . . though he normally talked, puzzled, or otherwise wormed his way out of the unwanted propositions. Still, it was nice to bathe without worrying about it.

Edward frowned. The water felt cold, and there was a strange scent in the air: an unlikely blend of mint, bleach, and anise. It was not unpleasant, but it had a numbing effect on his nose. After a minute it faded, and Edward figured that it was residue from the strong cleaning chemicals they used regularly.

Anyway, it was about time to go. Edward slipped out of the showers to the locker area that held uniforms, and dressed in the janitor's outfit. Then, he climbed into the air vent, and crawled into the rusty bowels of the old asylum.

There is something degrading about being dressed as a janitor, thought the arrogant genius as he sneezed from the stagnant, dusty air. First thing I do is going to be getting a new suit. Something darker green this time. That other suit looked almost neon in the city lights, and my complexion looked ghastly. Damn my tailor anyway! Which reminds me . . .

Why did the tired tailor drop his needle?

Edward dropped out of the vents, landing lithely on his feet. His dark red hair was falling into his face, wet and dusty. Still, he grinned, thinking of his riddle.

Because he had a stitch in his side!

Oh, I love that one!

As the man strode through the pipe-lined and vent-choked corridors chuckling, a shadow moved with him. It was so silent, it did not even interrupt the monotonous drips and scurrying of rats that echoed through the basement. Long, branch-like fingers felt their way through the tunnels, and bloodshot eyes followed the unsuspecting puzzler from behind, enjoying an amusement of their own.

At a split in the paths, Edward slowed to a stop. Suddenly, the map of the asylum he had memorized before coming here was a vaguer memory than it should have been. He looked from path to path, uncharacteristically confounded.

How can I be uncertain? he wondered in disgust. I know this place by heart! No, by mind. I'm a genius! I never forget! I have perfect memory!

Edward smiled, but it was a weak attempt at confidence. He forged ahead down the right-most passage. After a few moments, his smile faded, and he doubled back and this time took the left-most. Several paces down, he stopped again, and looked over his shoulder dubiously.

"I . . . I know the way," he tried to reassure himself softly, the echo of the basement making his voice sound small and thin. "I know the way. I got this."

He ran back to the split, but now it appeared to have more paths than before. Which way had he even come from? Edward licked his dry lips, green eyes darting around desperately. Why didn't he remember? Which way was it? Was he . . .

"I'm not- not lost," he told himself, looking on the verge of panic. He smiled maniacally now, though it was garish on his pale face. Swallowing hard, he run down a corridor. "I'm not lost! I know, I know the way!"

The pipes twisted endlessly, and he felt the weight of his memorized blueprints upon his mind, tangled as a labyrinth. He felt smaller than ever, like a mouse in a maze. How could he have been reduced to feeling like such an inferior intellect? How could he have forgotten . . .

"I know, I know, I know," he repeated the mantra to himself as he ran on, turning this way and that. "I know the solution. I always know the solution!"

A voice oozed out from the maze, hollow and detached, "You know because you cheated."

Edward slowed to a stop, all the overconfident mania draining from his face. He was panting by now, and had broken out into a cold sweat. His gaze darted around, wild and paranoid. "Who said that?"

"You always know because you always cheat. The only thing you've ever figured out is to look at the answers before the questions."

Edward's bottom lip actually trembled, and he drew a huffy breath. "That isn't true," he said scornfully. "I'm brilliant. You're just jealous."

The voice was closer now. "Jealous of a liar and a cheat? Jealous of a weak, sniveling pretender?"

"I don't lie!" Edward shouted childishly. "I don't lie! You're the coward! Come out! Why don't you? I'm not . . . scared of you."

His voice trailed off, and he felt his legs shaking, his fingernails digging into his palms. His breathing was heavy, but no longer due to physical strain. He swallowed again, but his voice remained scratchy as he whispered, "I'm not . . . scared . . . "

A strange cackle filled the air, echoing from every corner of the dank basement. The shadow slithered from out of nowhere, materializing before the frightened man. A patchwork mask hid all but bloodshot blue eyes and a toothy grin framed by loose stitches. A noose around the neck held the mask on, and a wide-brimmed, tattered brown hat threw a shadow over it. Straw poked out like hair from beneath the hat, which the man drew further down with a hand that looked like twigs: bony fingers wrapped in brown, pieced-together leather gloves.

"You are scared, but you know you deserve it," said the artificially distorted voice of Jonathan Crane. "Liar. Cheat."

"No, I-" Edward's voice cracked, and he shook his head, frowning in confusion. "You, you're cheat-cheating . . . You're not my- You're not . . . "

Edward's vision flickered, splicing the Scarecrow's image with that of another from long ago: a tall man that resembled Edward, but lacked his high forehead. This man was hefty, with arms like a boxer's, and his face was twisted with the slack fury of a drunkard.

"You're not my-" Edward's breath ran short, and he felt dizzy. "Not my . . . "

Edward fell to his knees, holding his head. He was unable to breath for several minutes, and he clutched his chest with one hand. His mind felt . . . There was no pain, but he felt it warping, as if the gray matter was shifting, breaking . . . His mind, his precious, precious genius mind was being ripped apart.

"All you have is based on lies," Scarecrow continued, circling him. "You aren't a genius. You are nothing but a lying, cheating, miserable little fool."

"No!" Edward gasped from the floor. "No, you- You're not my father! You're the Scare- You're the Sca-"

"Lying again? I'll show you."

Edward was yanked to his feet by the arm. Suddenly, he was not a grown man, but a young, skinny kid in a big T-shirt with a beer slogan and old, ratty green sneakers. The basement maze was now an decrepit house, screen door closed against a hot summer night, walls dingy from cigarette smoke. The air stank of greenery, tobacco, and more than anything else, cheap whiskey.

It was not Scarecrow dragging him along now.

"-many times do I have to tell you? You're no damned genius!" a slurred voice yelled down at him. "Stupid kid! I'll teach you to lie!"

The child Edward was crying, trying hopelessly to break free of the man's rough hand. "I'm sorry, daddy! I-I-I won't, I-" He broke into sobs. "But I didn't lie! I didn't! I really did pass the test! I really did! Why don't you believe-oowww!"

His father slapped him across the face, shook him violently. "How dare you lie to me now! Stop lying! You're a goddamned little cheat! A cheat! Just like your goddamned mother!"

Edward was slapped again, then thrown to the floor. He lay helplessly as he was kicked around, trying to shield himself with his small, bony hands. Then, his father removed his belt, and crouched over him menacingly. Despite having the same green eyes, Edward's father's were hazed and bloodshot from alcohol and did not have their son's bright spark. He had a heavy shadow of stubble and wore only worn jeans and a white tank. He was nobody, just white trash on the block, and Edward knew this- but he was powerless against this man. What did that make him? Less than nothing?

Fear always won out against pride. As he always had and always would, Edward cried out and begged pitifully. "Daddy, no! Daddy, stop! I won't . . . lie! Please, stop! Stop!"

And, in reality, Edward Nigma, an adult writhing on the floor in the grips of his wounded mind, screamed as he had as a child.

"AAAAGGGHHHH!"