Samhainophobia

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Hypegiaphobia is a fear of responsibility.
This half-chapter is a bit longer, but I hope it won't be very tiring. ;)

Special thanks to Rocku for such in-depth comments. I'm glad you like the town and Crane's memories. During the story there'll be a few more moments of introspection.
I hope to continue uploading as quickly. ;)

Chapter Three: Hypegiaphobia

Jonathan Crane awoke the hour before dawn. He felt strange, lying outstretched in the dark. It wasn't unpleasant as such, it was merely odd being surrounded by silence. While living in Gotham, he had gotten used to ordinary background noises such as passing cars and occasional screams.

Not wishing to waste any time in preparing his devious plans for the town, Crane got up, clothed himself and took out his briefcase from its hiding place. He patted the wad of money fondly, but removed only a very small amount, pocketing it with a smile.

He next neatly arranged his most favoured possessions in the world on his mattress: the burlap mask, his little blue notebook and the folder containing the current fear toxin formula.
The professor leafed through the formula, written in his own code, of course, checking to see how many of the chemicals he might be able to acquire locally.
He already had the ones hardest to obtain. They were kept in thick vials wrapped in a series of soft material, all carefully stored in a small foam-padded satchel. He checked the vials in case any had cracked during the repeated abuse he had received only a few nights ago.

The chemicals were more fortunate than him; they were completely undamaged, whereas his body still ached when he moved.

He was afraid he wouldn't find some of the chemicals he'd listed. On the other hand, he'd created the first batch in his youth using less perfected means. He'd have to content himself with a slightly degraded version of the toxin, but it would still have its basic trait.

Having carefully returned the various objects back into the briefcase, Crane jotted down a few reminders into his notebook and went downstairs for breakfast.
The owner of the B&B hovered anxiously nearby in case he needed anything. Unfortunately, all he really needed was to be left alone.
He finished eating a piece of toast and attempted to slip away unnoticed.
She blocked his way and looked up at him through her enormous glasses.

'Was your breakfast alright, Mr Tattiebogle?'

'Yes, it was fine, Mrs...'

'Ms Elisabeth Tembrooke. But you may call me Ms Beth. It gives a more homely feel, doesn't it?'

'It does? You may call me Jonathan, I guess. Professor Jonathan.' He puffed his thin chest out.

'Oooh, now there's a thing; a professor, eh? Are you here on holiday, Professor? I do hope you'll enjoy our picturesque town.'

'Yes, indeed. In fact, I'm here to complete a study of mine. I started the initial experiments at Gotham University, but I believe that a peaceful surrounding will provide just as much success.'

He neglected to add that he had been fired from the University of Gotham for frightening and endangering students, but that was a minor detail in his eyes. Crane was about to leave when Ms Beth coughed behind him.

'As a professor, I'm sure you'll be able to pay in advance for the entire week?'

Crane glared at her and grated:
'Certainly...'

He counted out the cash, noting how the old woman's eyes glinted at the sight of the money.

'Oh, and the extra price for the cleaning and taking your coat to the dry cleaner's, if you please, dear.'

Seemingly senile, she's as sharp as a knife, that one, he thought.

She furtively counted the money again behind the reception desk and nodded once in satisfaction to him.

'I hope you have a nice day in town, Professor', she said smugly as he left.

'And I hope a great big house falls on you, you wicked old witch', muttered the man known as the Scarecrow as he walked towards the dry cleaner's to pick up his coat.

***

'I must say, mister Tattiebogle, I've never had such a dirty thing before; it wasn't half a job, getting it clean', the dry cleaner stated, after Crane had paid him.

'It's Professor Tattiebogle, thank you very much. I appreciate your efforts.'

'What've you been doing, Professor? 'Ere, there were grass stains, mud stains, for a minute I even thought I even saw blood stains...' The old man glanced at Crane through narrowed eyes, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke towards him.

'Field research. It's so difficult to get people to co-operate these days. Goodbye, sir.'

Crane left the building hurriedly. He mentally noted down Thomas Grentley, the charming proprietor of Quick Clean, as one of the first subjects to experiment on.

He spent the next hour at various locations around the little town, buying simple articles necessary for his toxin. This included a visit to the pharmacy, local self-service shop and tiny agrocenter. The man at the agrocenter could be excluded from his experiments for now, as he had been very polite and helpful.
In a rare stroke of luck, he managed to obtain all he needed.

On the way back to the bed and breakfast, Crane stopped at a diner to have a quick lunch. He also needed to gather his thoughts and plan his next step.

He took a seat in the corner and put his bags on the seat opposite him. He scribbled a general layout of his plan into his blue notebook, having ordered his meal from a waitress with a big white grin which, had it been any wider, would have made the top of her head fall off.

Crane stopped in his brainstorming to inspect his meal when it was served.
He gently lifted the top off a hamburger with his pencil, a sceptic frown on his face.

'Hey! No need for that! I swear I just made it...'

He glanced upwards at the waitress. The girl was standing with her hands on her hips, a slight pout on her face. Crane just stared back at her impassively. She was confused when no retort arrived and mumbled:

'Hmph. Weirdo.'

She pursed her lips and, with a sweep of her hand through her blonde hair, turned on her heel and strutted off towards other customers. Crane licked his finger, turned a page in his notebook and jotted down 'Maggy the Waitress' underneath the name of Thomas Grentley.

His black list of people he dearly wanted to gas would soon be full at this rate.
He wrote down a general impression of Maggy next to her name. She was most likely a typical young female in a community such as Charleston.

If she'd been his generation and born in his town, she'd no doubt have been one of the bullying popular girls.
Vain, not very bright and dealing with uncertainty by displaying arrogance.
He would need more details to prognose a reaction to the fear gas, but he hazarded a guess at her screaming about being overweight, possibly also hallucinating insects or some other common fear.

Crane pondered his methods of gathering information while he munched the burger, which was of passable quality.

At one end of the diner, the waitress and a few youths were whispering and one gave the professor an ugly look. Crane remembered how much he hated teenagers.
It had caused him trouble while he was working at Gotham University, where it had been inevitable to cross paths with the younger students.

He made a fresh note to include more of the young adult populace into his survey of fear. Wiping his lips fastidiously with a napkin, Crane got up and trudged over to pay for his meal.
He certainly didn't plan to leave a tip.

***

Bruce Wayne, known to most as the Batman while on his peculiar night shift, was deeply annoyed. The previous night had turned into a series of wild goose chases.
He pondered on all that had gone wrong as he sipped a mug of strong coffee in his armchair.

The explosion of the ship had been the inside job of a desperate shipping company.
One of the managers had wished to use the possible insurance to repay his department's debts and avoid getting fired. Needless to say, he would now be unemployed and serving a few years at Blackgate Penitentiary.

The Riddler had been ignored for the time being, as Batman raced to find the Joker before he blew up the buildings he'd marked.
In the end, the evil maniac hadn't even turned up. He was probably curled up fast asleep somewhere in the Narrows. Even maniacs stayed at home in this weather. Only the goddamn Batman was stupid enough to spend the night on the streets.

Batman gritted his teeth. The downpour had drenched him and he found himself wishing a small explosion had occurred, just to give him a purpose to be standing there.
That was a worrying train of thought.
He shook his head distractedly and the streamlets of rain running down his mask poured onto his face.

In any case, he hated having his time wasted, when he could be doing useful work for the city, or even, fate forbid it, having a little time for himself.

What had been the last straw was the information that a police officer, whom Jim Gordon had sent to fetch the Scarecrow, had returned empty-handed.
The villain had apparently wriggled free of his bonds and was now missing again. The rain had washed away any traces as to where he was heading.
The police assumed he had either returned to Gotham or had found a hideout in a nearby city.

Batman hoped he had returned to his city, as finding him again would prove difficult if he was on new territory.

Bruce Wayne returned mentally to the here and now.

He would spend the evening deciphering the Riddler's semaphore clues and hopefully find a means to use the information to find the green-clad man.

With him locked safely up, a little of the pressure building up in the city could ease down.

If he found spare time and no dire complications arose, he would seek out Hector Pyckle, the Scarecrow's latest victim.
There was something about the whole case that was being kept from the police.

Pyckle had insisted the Scarecrow had taken nothing from the house after gassing him, but Gordon had doubted the truth of this. Crane wasn't partial to spraying people without attempting to gather materials for his tasteless study of humankind. The only reason he'd waste the gas was if he was 'gathering funds' to finance his dangerous chemical cocktails.

The logic conclusion was that Pyckle was lying, though exactly what he wanted to keep secret, remained unknown to Gordon. The police commissioner had questioned Batman about the businessman's possible dealings in illegal activities, but the vigilante knew only as much as he did.

Batman had remembered though, in retrospection, that the Scarecrow had been clutching onto a briefcase on the train. It probably hadn't contained just a toothbrush and his favourite pyjamas.

Jim Gordon could do nothing to examine Pyckle's case more thoroughly, as the man was considered merely the hapless victim.
However, the Dark Knight could employ a more intimidating tactic to find out what the fat businessman was hiding.

Soon Hector Pyckle would be getting another unwanted guest in his work-room.

***

Crane made his way slowly down the streets, towards his current residence.
He was holding the bags of various chemicals carefully, thinking about where he would carry out the process of mixing a new batch of the fear toxin. His tiny room in the bed and breakfast seemed highly inappropriate.
As he walked along the main street, he saw a small group of young men heading in his direction. A few of them were smiling grimly.
This did not bode too well.

He decided to ignore them entirely, in the hope that this would sufficiently rattle their self-confidence to leave him alone. He frowned when one of them gently took hold of his shoulder as he passed.
Crane stopped and turned slowly towards the gaggle of irritating youths.

The individual who had blocked his way stood in front of Crane with his hands on his belt. He was a very strong-looking fellow, but failed in his attempt to loom menacingly, as he was shorter than Crane by nearly a head.
In spite of this fact, the Master of Fear mentally gave him a point for trying.
It wasn't his fault, really it wasn't. Few people could top Crane's six feet of height, even though it admittedly gave him an ungainly appearance.

He guessed the young man's name to be Earl or Duke or Samson, one of those vaguely embarrassing names, which nevertheless gave a mental image of someone who could open beer bottles with their teeth. This one seemed like a refined version of the archetype, as he was neatly combed and dressed in a manner he probably considered was darkly stylish.

Crane looked down at him, with some satisfaction that he could do so. He took in the boy's leather coat and sunglasses with mild disdain. The boy resolutely looked straight back.
He poked the thin professor in the chest, inadvertably prodding his ribs.

'Listen, Professor. We're all friends of Maggy's, and we don't like your attitude. She was very upset at the diner. You think you have a right to treat us like we're some hillbillies or something, just because you have yourself a fancy job in the city?'

'What? Don't be ridiculous, boy. How could I possibly treat you in any fashion, if I haven't even devoted a moment's thought to you? I've plently of other business on my mind, let alone to start worrying about the over-sensitive feelings of a waitress and her little friends.'

'Don't judge us, you stuck-up idiot. You don't know us', the young man snarled and cracked his knuckles together.

'Of course I do. I'm a psychologist. Let me see if I can make an overall assessment.' Crane put down the chemicals to one side and stepped into the small semi-circle of boys.

'What's your name?' He asked the muscled youth.

'Earl.'

'Go figure. Let's see... Ah. You're the one that they all admire for, yes, I think it is safe to say, for being able-bodied at sports. I suppose you're not a very good student. The talk is, you'll get a scholarship for playing in whatever team they have over here. I'm sorry to say, you'll probably be passed over in favour of someone from a bigger town...'

'Hey! Now look here...'

'You wish you had a expensive car, Earl, but unfortunately it'll prove impossible with the shopkeeper's wages you're destined for. Your biggest fear is ending up spending your entire life here, just like your parents.' Crane turned abruptly to the next teenager.

He grinned sheepishly back and Crane recognised him as the drunk whose car he'd used to get back to civilisation.

'You... You're the guy who I drove back home. You were too drunk to stand! Hmmm... You're interesting. You are afraid of a lot of things. Making decisions. Standing up for your own opinion. Getting sober for once and taking responsibility. Automatophobia in traces, too.'

'Huh? What's automatophobia?' The youth was blushing furiously.

'Fear of animatronic creatures. Ones that seem real in a way, but only copy life. Puppets. Dolls, dummies.' Crane smiled a thin, knowing smile. 'Scarecrows, too.'

He turned around towards the others, warming up to his subject.

A square-jawed man edged away from him. He didn't want an accurate description of himself in front of his friends, especially after watching Earl and Andrew redden up to their ears.
Crane took a step forward and at that moment the situation took a turn for the worse. The threatened youth took a swing at the professor with his fist.

To his surprise, the professor deflected the blow with ease. As Earl and another man advanced towards him, Crane realised something.
This group of men did not intimidate him in the slightest.
They did represent in his eyes, in a way, the bullies who'd first broken his frail spirit in his youth, but he'd moved on a lot since then. He was now used to making adult thugs scream for their mothers while exposed to the toxin.

Crane shifted to the side as Earl tried to punch him, making the youth stagger, the force of his blow wasted into thin air.

He'd confronted some of Gotham's finest police force units and had dealt with some of the city's deadliest villains. The Scarecrow held a sinister reputation on the streets.

Crane swung round and blocked a hit from one of the men, hitting back with a well-placed kick.

He'd fought both the Batman and the Joker. Not at the same time, of course. Truth be told, he'd been beaten half to death with a chair by the Joker and the Bat had left his own fair share of bruises on Crane's body, but it was the solid facts that counted.

As he generously shared out a few punches, the weekend alcoholic called Andrew, who'd been standing uncertainly to the side, decided to call it a day and ran away.

Crane was one of the physically weaker criminals of Gotham, but he knew enough of hand-to-hand combat to hold his own in a fight.
He'd learnt the crane style of kung fu and was skilled with a scythe. Few people found that out, though.
The problem was that most of his opponents used superiour weaponry or brute strength. In this brawl, however, his knowledge of various fighting techniques came into full use.

Crane leapt to the side and crouched slightly, waiting for one of the men to advance. They kept their distance, looking rather unnerved by the professor's display of aggression.
It was the surprise that stopped them more than the pain. They hadn't ever counted on him punching back.
Earl bit back his pride for once and buried the hatchett.

'Nice work, man. Didn't mean it to come to this at first, y'know...'

He nodded respectfully and slowly retreated. The others gratefully followed him.
Crane watched them until they had gone far enough down the street and then picked up his bags. He gave a snort of dismissal to the group in the distance.

This had felt rather good.
Not to mention that he'd done it all as Jonathan Crane, not as the Scarecrow, who had an easier time frightening off people.