Legend of the BATMAN:

FEAR ITSELF

Riverside Dr by the Docks, Gotham.

Sept. 8th 2012

01:44 AM.

In Cheapside just outside the Red-Light District, Howard Brandan brazenly walks into some of the more seedy parts, into Marko's Terf and get himself a good little slut…a very little slut.

The room Marco had for him was the usual spot, her place or so it seemed she shared a rent or lived with another, another prostitute if he wasn't mistaken. He sat on the bed grinning at the girl approaching him. The thirteen year-old girl did not seem to be nervous at all—her own smile showing a little devilish tinge, she looked like a professional. 'I hear you like it rough?' she says, a sly grin that subtly tried to hide her growing anxiety.

'I hear you can take it.'

The girl sits on his lap, straddling him, looking through his dilated green irises. 'I'm learning new things every day, getting stronger.'

Branden smiled himself. This little girl would soon eat her words. He went through Marko's assets like wildfire, something that the Albanian pimp would have put a stop to when he were still backed by the Falcone family.

Holly Robinson was a new recruit. He had taken her especially for Branden so that the Lieutenant would leave his other assets alone, it would have been bad for business. Thus, he stood at the foot of the stairway, apprehensively nervous, fearful. He could hear it…they've started.

Branden had built up a reputation in the business as a man of violence—aggressively roleplaying his frustrations. He feared to ask for elaboration.

Perhaps he should have.

A loud screaming woke him up in the middle of the night. It wasn't over quickly, so he and his men ran up-stairs, the doors were locked so they kicked the doors down and what they saw…

Branden was not a much liked human being, not even for someone as sleazy as Marko. But seeing the man splayed on the ground in a pool of blood, his face scratched up until his eye balls were ripped open, and Marko's merchandise? Crouched down in a foetal ball in the corner, eyes teary, she was the one screaming and it took him over an hour to calm her down, even with some sedatives in her system.

At around seven they called GCPD and the first guy on the scene was Detective Bullock and that new guy, Gordon. He hadn't yet met him, but judging from the way Branden talks and his own frequent and more violent visits, he suspected he wouldn't like him much.

The GCPD were all over his place, after that, Markus was not allowed anywhere near the room.

Bullock was talking with CSI, canvassing the crime scene for more evidence. Gordon was with the witness.

She was shaky as Gordon understood she was suffering from what he could only guess was a very traumatic night for her, especially someone of her age. Her pimp, Marko, had said she'd been screaming at the top of her head for over four hours. He tried his best, giving her a nice warm cup of green tea. A few minutes with her and he was back upstairs with Bullock.

Branden's body lay chest down, head was found looking down with his hands over his head. His light brown hair now drenched in the dark crimson hue of his own blood. 'The witness is Holly Robinson, one of Marko's new employees and apparently Branden's favourite,' the young detective said with a slight sneer of disgust. 'According to the witness, everything was going as expected…you know…as far as she was concerned. Then when he…finished…' Gordon was really struggling and Harvey Bullock was finding that quite amusing. He was like a fucking virgin…hard to believe he's married. '…when he finished, she remembered things got blurry, "musky" were her words. That was when Branden just snapped and started screaming and yelling, scratching his face while repeatedly shouting "Leave me alone" and "Scarecrow". Went onto the floor like he is now and just continued to claw at himself which was when Holly started screaming.'

'Probably when he started ripping his eye lids off,' Bullock estimated.

'Well she says he continued like this for around fifteen more minutes before getting quiet.' Gordon tucked his notebook into his jacket and looked on at the body. CSI had just finished cataloguing the crime scene as best they could and would wait for City Homicide to come in and take the body. 'What do you think—scared to death or psychotic breakdown?'

Harvey crouched down to get a better look at the Branden's face, 'Right after sex?' Bullock asked, waywardly scrutinising his younger charge. 'Howard was a jack-ass but he was one of the bravest jerks I knew—thick headed at times but sharp as steel. Perhaps it was some sort of hallucinogen?'

At this, Gordon shook his head, wearing a slight smug smile he kept to half as he walked around the body. 'You were quick to pass the other guy off as just mentally insane but you won't do the same for Howard Branden?'

As if a fuse was suddenly lit, Bullock got up to meet his partner on levelled ground, eyeing him with intense prejudice and suspicion. 'That's because you don't know Branden like I do, Jim. Maybe no one else at all knew him like I did. You think you were the only one with a troubled past but you aint—not even close.' The scruffy looking detective began to raise his voice, pushing people a little away, knowing the full extent of the potential wrath.

'You don't think that's reason enough to push someone to the limit?' Gordon challenged.

Finally relenting, Harvey dropped it, walking away and back to his previous position before the fuse was lit. He started to speak in his normal tone again, 'I've seen what going past the "limit" looks like, Gordon. This doesn't fit. He was a tough guy. He was really tough…and violent sure, but out of everyone, he'd be the last person I'd see losing it the way he did.'

In a weird way, Gordon understood. Bullock and Branden, they knew each other for over a decade. He'd wager they were more like brothers, growing up side by side…in Gotham City no-less. 'I'll go with Corrigan to the lab and run a toxicology check.' He left Bullock to mourn his dear friend and just outside, the young man took out his phone. '…Listen, Kathy…I know this is out of the blue and I don't wanna inconvenience you but I was wondering if you could look something up for me…Scarecrow. I wanna know what's being said on the streets about some sort of scarecrow monster.'

National-Allied University

2:30 PM.

'Late one night you find yourself walking home. You hear the soft, crackling sound of something stepping on dry leaves nearby. Your heart begins to race as you imagine who or what lurks in the shadows,' Professor Crane walks across the dark stage, trying not to look at the hundreds of young and nubile faces paying him mandatory attention. 'Are you experiencing fear or anxiety?' As expected there was silence, he saw a shrug from someone in the front row. He continues. 'The differences between these emotions can be confusing. Even in psychology, you will frequently find the concepts used interchangeably. Fears of the unknown, of death, of catastrophe or contamination—a fear of flying, of failure or even success are commonly noted as a "fear" yet they are actually experienced as the emotion of anxiety.

'Similarly, phobias are considered to be an anxiety disorder , even though we think of a phobia in terms of something that is feared, be it insects, heights or enclosed spaces. Yet it is very important to differentiate between fear and anxiety as best as one could.' Finally, Crane returned to the podium, front and centre, finally looking out onto the masses. 'These emotions can transform into behaviours that may lead one to avoid situations or enter defensive mechanisms that obscure the recognition of reality, and consequently have been understood as keys to the dynamics of emotional illness.'

Suddenly, looking out at his students he feels his hands quivering—only slightly, but enough to take him out of the moment for a second. 'Fear is a powerful and primitive emotion, generally considered a reaction to something immediate that threatens your security or safety, a possibility that your physical self might be harmed which in turn motivates you to protect yourself. Thus we have a behavioural trait shared by all animals, the notion of "fight or flight".' He then paused when by happenstance he caught a figure hidden to his left, off stage, waiting for him with their hands resting below their navel. A smile appeared on the young professor's thin face and he felt tension relieved. He turned back to his young and attentive students. 'But fear is a teacher,' he goes on to say. 'The first one you ever have. Fear of starvation is what first prompted you to smile at your mother. Fear of social ostracism is what first made you desperate to please your father. W…when we talk about fear of success, we are talking about the fear of betraying subconscious contractual agreements with, primarily, our parents. Does anyone know what that means?'

He waited, as per protocol, for no response—their own subconscious agreement.

'To put it simply: you may have a secret, unspoken pact with your father never to become more successful than he, or an unspoken understanding that the dreams that your mother harbours for you are more important than your own.' He heard some murmuring within the large lecture hall, his haven on campus that transformed him. 'Instinctively, we know that we cannot survive on our own so we fear more than anything, isolation and social exclusion…

'Now…the biochemical aspects of fear…the brain…' his mind started to slow…or single out a particular memory. 'There have been many experiments conducted to uncover exactly how the brain interprets stimuli, how animals develop necessary fear responses. Fear is, as we've discussed, established unconsciously. Research has seen that the amygdala is involved,' he then looked to his watch: 3pm. 'Next week we will go further into the biochemistry of fear, its circuitry, down to its molecular basis. Tomorrow however, we will explore the behavioural basis and perception, watch the tutorials online if you have questions,' the bell rings their freedom. He permits them.

As they left, Professor Crane walked over to the man in the shadows, grinning at him smugly. He had much to be smug about. 'A shaper of minds…they befit you, Jonathan.'

'It is good to see you again, Dr Strange.' The two men embraced like old friends. Crane smiled fondly at the older man, perfectly round spectacles, bearded across the jaw though above his lip was closely shaved. He stood upright, very straight, as someone of his academic stature and naturally developed arrogance would.

Hugo Strange was one of his greatest and closest mentors. All of his life he'd been a pariah, never fitting in but Strange showed him that it could be a good thing so he took Dr Strange's Psychology classes, shadowed him around when he was working at Behavioural Analysis and built up his own profiles.

Now, Crane was a teacher, preaching everything he'd learnt from his own experiences and from everything that Dr Strange had ever taught him. Yeah, he idolised the man.

Strange took the young professor's bag and handed it to him, 'Come, Jonathan, let us walk.' As the two citizens of Academia walked through campus, they exchanged familiar pleasantries packed full of nostalgia and rather good memories. 'I'm very proud of you, Jonathan,' Dr Strange finally told him causing a slight smile to appear on the university professor's thin, pale face.

They passed by a couple of his students who smiled and waved to him where he returned the gesture and continued. Hugo saw that smile and more than anything he understood that gratifying feeling.

'Adoration is a drug, my boy,' he counselled.

Crane acknowledged his words with a humble nod. 'It's a very effective drug, especially on first experiences,' though he seemed unbothered, there was a slight hiccup in his tone. 'I spent most of my life an observer, not by choice but circumstance. The only time I get recognition would be a negative one. It's strange to see it changed so much here…now.'

They had now entered into the parking lot—Strange had said that he parked his Royce on the level above his. Now with the twelve level parking lot deserted, Dr Strange's voice receded into whispers, though not devoid of confidence and surety. 'I also want to talk to you…'

Crane chuckled and stopped his professor from continuing. 'Yes, Doctor, I conducted the research last night, the response was as we predicted.' He looked around him with caution and once satisfied were his paranoia, he directed his mentor to the back railings behind Strange's fancy looking old-timer car. 'The toxin given to subject three, in solution form was not responsive.'

'At all?'

'Not until I had him exposed to focussed microwaves designed to turn states, even within the body. His body succumbed to the drug's effects within seconds.' Crane handed him a file.

'So the drug is an inhalant,' he deduced reading the detailed analysis with much interest.

'And the effects are as we had originally suspected,' Crane added, 'the subject entered into a heightened state of fear, stimulating a chemical reaction similar to those experiencing immense emotional and psychological trauma and paranoid schizophrenia.'

'This is a breakthrough, Professor,' the wizened Psychiatric Physician smiled up at his former protégé. 'Why don't you pay my lab a visit, Jonathan? I have a few more samples that I'd like you to take a look at.'

Crane's face contorted slightly and when Strange inquired if there was a problem, Crane sued for forgiveness. 'It's just that I've never actually been to the Narrows before.'

G.C.P.D.

12:00 P.M.

'So what'd you got, Corrigan?'

Bordering on vexed, Corrigan ripped his gloves off and shot it away. 'I don't know what you expect me to find, Jim. I've been searching, run toxicology about a dozen times and it's all negative.' Corrigan re-covered the body and moved to his desk.

'Well Bullock thinks that he was poisoned.'

Corrigan sighed as he started to jot down his findings. There was no signs of narcotics in his system, no traces of invasive substances…

A light had suddenly hued atop Jim Gordon's head. So far the striking connections were the words "scarecrow", he thought to himself, looking down at his notes. 'What was cause of death?'

'Cardiac arrest,' he answered a little too quickly.

Gordon was starting to get real impatient. 'Yeah, you see, that's what doesn't make sense. Branden had no previous history of heart problems or prolonged stress. He was completely healthy.'

The CSI shrugged at him, 'I don't know what to tell you, Gordon—'

Officer Langley burst into the lab calling on the Lieutenant. 'Gordon, we've got a Ten-Ninety at Mid and FiDi. Party clown by the name of Pagliacci thought he could hold his own bank robbery by himself. Normally I wouldn't trouble you, sir, but the man has a military grade sub-machine gun and scouts say he's got C4 all over the nave.' Jim affirmed, bade Corrigan contact him if anything changes in the case and walks out with Langley. 'We were wondering if you'd assist and instruct before S.W.A.T tries to intervene. Thirty hostages the boys would love to see alive, sir.'

'Don't sweat it, kid. Let's go.'

The Narrows

08:45 P.M.

Murky fog always seemed to settle within the streets around Arkham Asylum and always filled his bones with an ungodly chill of uneasiness. It quickly flushed away the rather comedic job of apprehending a washed up man in a clown getup struggling to operate both a gun and his explosives. He refused to take his clown mask off to hide his embarrassment, on Gordon's orders they decided to preserve what little dignity the man had.

Gordon shared a laugh with the men, people who'd wanted him dead only days ago. Comedy had a way of bringing people together…but all that was gone now as he and his contact met at a corridor of houses leading up to the bridge for the infamous mental institute. An antiquated structure, planted upon a small inlet, with a large unkempt yard dating back to when the region was mostly open country.

It was a symbol of all that is unutterably hideous, with its gables so crooked and awkward, pointed towers stood uneven and gave it a sinister look like horns of the devil himself leering to those who passed it. Yet, the house was—and for that matter still is—of a kind to attract the attention of the curious. It followed the average New England colonial lines of the middle eighteenth century and dictated by the progress of taste and style at the time. Many attempts had been to modernise the facility whereabouts most of the Georgian interior were removed. The east and west wings were now of mostly steel and glass but still looked out of place despite efforts to seamlessly blend them in with stone embroidery that covered the titanium frame.

From the front door, a large roundabout that united the roads from the east, south and western gate, though each road led to the Narrows anyway, it was the eastern roads that entered into narrow streets and alleys. These dark alleyways and dirty corners that smelt of blood, piss and cum were the only childhood Kathy Kane ever saw…the Narrows. As a girl, she learnt to remain quiet and observe the world around her. She had never seen much use beyond her own survival.

That was until she met Jim Gordon. Long story short, she agreed to be his eyes and ears on the Narrows and Cheapside districts.

'They took the south entrance,' she told the cop while still perfectly veiled in the shadow of the alleyway, 'Trucks and lots of them. Ma saw them all, escorted by like three— I think, detective cars.'

'Okay, did you see anything else?'

Kathy hesitated for a while, being cautious on what she should say or omit. 'Well I decided it was better if I took a closer look…so I climbed the wall.' She paused to see if the Detective Gordon was giving her that disapproving look he gave the time he caught her snatching people's wallets straight out of pockets in Mid-Town. 'Anyway…I saw them take out like more than a dozen oil drums and carry them inside. I heard loud screams coming from there a just yesterday. My uncle Trent was sent there last year though he was completely sane, but when we visited yesterday, he was under intense surveillance, completely nuts, raving about scarecrows and shit.'

Gordon sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. It's always a scarecrow, he thought. Why's it always a scarecrow?

So against his better judgment, he followed in Kathy's footsteps. He climbed over the wall, luckily seeing as he was taller and didn't need to look for a shallow section of the protective moat surrounding the facility, though now he stressed to find an excuse to why he was covered from the neck down in Gotham shit-water. Barb was already on her back about getting beaten up by his own colleagues. Sure he didn't tell his wife that they threatened her as well but he didn't really need to. She read through him like a check-list.

She definitely would have flipped out if she ever saw him here, now.

Usually he would be able to just walk in the front door but after seeing Loeb's Alpha Romeo pull up in from the front gate, he knew he had made the right call. Apparently Loeb paid regular visits to Arkham the past few months. Sometimes he'd notice a change in Loeb's posture, his tone, cracks in his hard and cold demeanour that he used to wear as a medal of honour.

Jim climbed the tall building and disguised himself as an orderly and followed the pair of well-dressed old men, hidden in the shadows of some of the offices. Luckily for him they were more or less connected to each other so he could tail them easily.

Falcone embraced his old friend. 'I'm glad I could intercept you, my friend,' the Italian beamed and they started walking. 'I take it you're here for la tua bella figlia?'

The Police Commissioner nodded rather uncomfortably. He was confident by now that he was no novice to the system of Gotham but with Falcone, it seemed more difficult to know when he was being threatened, or given a friendly pat on the back. 'And you? Arkham is the last place I would expect to find you, Don Falcone.'

The Italian gangster suddenly became serious. 'Well I truth you'd be right. This place never sat well with me and Signore Strange is a creepy old man. But I have an appointment with Dr Strange, something to help me manage the city a little better. Which reminds me—I hear that you are having trouble with new rookie.'

Loeb let out a groan, 'Gordon, apparently he's some sort of legacy. Family's been in the Force for generations. Plus now the public seems to hold him in high regard, a hero.'

'Fucker, he might be a bigger problem now than we thought before. Get him under control, ameco. His meddling is not good for business. More than a hundred thousand bucks worth of arms and ammunition gone, along with my buyers and sellers. '

There were rooms on their right and left, and noise banging from them furiously trying to get out. Falcone grunted uncomfortably, and trying hard not to gaze at the small windows on the doors, at the inside and the crazies locked within.

'I'm working on it, my friend,' said Loeb, rubbing his head. 'I'm trying to get rid of him but its proving a lot harder now that Gotham is growing to idolise it, even some of your inside-men seem to revere him.'

Falcone chuckled at his old friend. 'That's why you don't merely get rid of him, mio amico. Gli uomini dovrebbero o da lo spettacolo o completamente distrutti.'

'Machiavelli?'

'Universal wisdom, my friend,' Don Falcone smirked. Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed…

The two walked the rest of the way in hushed whispers about their distrust in the facility. Arkham Asylum had always given them the creeps. The stories that came out of this place were enough to give Falcone nightmares for years.

Dr Strange stood at the end of the dark and eerie corridor, hands behind his back as he awaited his important and powerful guests. Carmine Falcone marched into Strange's office, accompanied by the Police Commissioner.

'Good evening, sirs,' the short and stout man greeted them with a courteous bow, putting his round spectacles into his coat's chest pocket. 'I must say as pleasant as it is to receive you, sirs, I must confess this is unexpected and I am at a disadvantage.'

'Nothing serious, Doctor, just had some questions rise up,' Loeb assured the stout psychologist. 'Things we'd prefer not to let out and I would assume you would too.'

To this Hugo laughed though more to himself than anything. He was sure however it may have come out as a little bit arrogantly. 'I try not to trouble myself with the opinions of others, especially once I see they are inconsequential to my work. I find it's a lot easier to do what I do when I drown out the useless noise.'

'Well that noise, as useless as it may seem is annoying the fuck out of me.' Falcone huffed. 'Our interests are your interests, Strange. You have no idea how dirty your hands are.'

Then Hugo asked what it was that the two men wanted of his time.

'I've come to visit my daughter, Doctor,' Loeb told him. 'Carmine here just wants to make sure that his investment's not gone to waste.'

The stout little man regarded his guests with scepticism. But now he seemed more affronted than anything and had half a mind to voice his opinions. 'As I understand it,' he starts, hands in his coat pockets, 'Don Falcone, you have pulled support of my work completely,' his crazed orbs following him intensely. 'You've stopped my income of unwitting subjects, now we all know that before you use a weapon…you need to know if it works and you've cut me off just to keep some of your thugs out of a little jail time.'

Falcone took offense to this. 'Hey Doc, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. I've brought you the shipments, at great cost.'

'Yes and we've paid you all in full with reassurance of more coming in as long as you do the same.'

Again, Falcone was not amused, walking over the old man. 'Maybe money don't mean nothing to me so much as favours—that's the real currency here.'

Beyond his own control, Hugo flinched ever so suddenly but even so he was mentally punishing himself for his weakness. 'I am well aware, Carmine that you are not intimidated by me.'

'Huh, sure as hell hope so. I remember beating the crap out of you in high school.'

Commissioner Loeb looked like he was about to step in and separate them before things escalated. Carmine Falcone was not known for dropping an issue by himself. It usually took someone close to him to snap him out of his blood rage.

The tension between the Italian and the doctor was on a fritz. Falcone looked like he was about ready to knock the guy out but Dr Strange was calm, unmoved. His brown eyes focused and his hands behind his back, resting just above his waist.

'Alright that's enough!' Loeb asserted himself, pushing Dr Strange back against his desk. 'Remember who you work for, Hugo. It was our money and influence that took you out of the gutters. It was Falcone and I who scrubbed your records clean…all we ask is for you to comply, give us what we asked for.'

'And remember, we have the means to throw you back where we found you…you and that puny student of yours.' Falcone held the man to the desk, his index finger raised in hostility. He was referring to Crane of course. How he knew about his prodige was beyond him, but that hardly seemed to matter. 'So just deliver those drugs and we'll keep our mouths shut.'

Hugo suddenly smiled. 'About what? You don't know anything.' He stared Falcone right in the eye defiantly but it was Loeb that answered.

'We know you don't want us to take a closer look at the second half of the drugs you had us ship out to Pakistan. We know about the illegal experiments you perform on the inmates of Arkham.' This took Hugo by surprise but he remained in control of whatever turmoil lay within. 'You see we don't do business with anyone and not keep tabs on what they do. We don't do business without finding out about every last skeleton in the cupboard, every dirty little secret.'

Again the psychologist remained emotionless though a slight grin appeared on his bearded face that caused Falcone to back away slowly. 'Your point is duly noted, Commissioner,' he fixed up his tie and gestured for them to follow him. 'I am most grateful of what you've given me. I've taken the initiative to call for Miriam when I heard you were on your way. She's waiting in the room, I'll turn the camera's off.'

Loeb gave him an uneasy smile and thanked him. A regular sized room, blank on all sides with two way glass at the very end connected to another room. There on a desk was his daughter, the spitting image of his ex-wife. But there was something off.

The doors shut behind him and he heard the clicking of the metal locks. There was something wrong with her, with his daughter and it wasn't just her condition…

The walls melted away to reveal they were in a glass room.

But before Loeb could reach her fragile daughter, a solid wall of glass descended between them. Loeb was banging on the glass, trying to beak it, obviously he was doing close to nothing against it. 'Miriam!' he cried. 'What are you doing to her?!'

His question went unanswered as Dr Strange stalked around the glass cage. Then his daughter's compartment began to smoke up. All of a sudden, Miriam began to thrash about, waving her arms about, swatting at ghosts in the thick air.

'What are you doing to my daughter?!'

Then, like a phantom immerging out of the smoke, walking towards his beloved Miriam—a monster…The Batman? No…a man dressed somewhat in a dirty old straitjacket and stitched up potato bag head. His loose straps dragged on the floors in an eerily threatening way.

Then a raspy voice like a hissing, spectral and almost unworldly, 'Do you know what fear truly is, Commissioner?'

Loeb had started to bang on the glass, still crying out for her. As for Miriam, at the mere sight of the figure, hovering over her, she recoiled. The only words that seemed to be able to come from her was 'Scarecrow…scarecrow,' over and over again.

The Scarecrow came closer, placing his callous hands, wrapped in tattered bandages, touching her neck delicately. He held her facing the Commissioner. He glided closer, whispering distantly.

Falcone tried to punch through the glass but it was no use. He turned to the psychologist, who was looking as crazy as the inmates. 'I want you to remember what fear looks like, Mr Falcone—what deep fear looks like. Fear is the catalyst of which all other emotions are born of, even pain. It's what makes us stronger than most species, what makes us advanced. Because we know to be afraid of danger, we know how to survive. We know to avoid what we fear, and what we fear most is death.'

'Fear is the most powerful emotion in the human consciousness,' the scarecrow boomed. 'It defines who you are and what you're made of, so tell me, Loeb; who are you?' It was not clear who the ragged man was speaking to, holding Miriam's head close to him, but he looked out toward the Commissioner. The toxic gas snaked around him as though they were bewitched. He pulled her little chin, breathing down her face. 'There is nothing to fear but fear itself…'

On the outside, Falcone was helpless, but at the same time, he was fascinated by the display before him. What he could do with this drug was unimaginable. He could clean out the Russians permanently, have full control of Gotham itself, he couldn't lie the prospect was appealing.

One of his closest and most loyal of friends, the toughest guy he knew was laying on the ground, completely shitting himself, his fucked up daughter's issues dialled up to a hundred. He was calling out for her and that scarecrow looking man was standing over them both. But her, the kid, she was traumatised and Falcone got the sense it was not from the scarecrow. Fuck, knew Gill's into a lot of fucked up shit but I didn't...

'Well?' Dr Strange stared at him, hands crossed and leaning on his desk, smiling from ear to ear in that creepy psycho killer way he does. I sure know where to find 'em, he mused. 'Are we impressed? Is everything as you wanted, signor Falcone?'

Carmine was floored, his gaze glued to his friend not reduced to nothing but a shivering mess, and…he really did shit himself.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Gordon didn't know what to make of what he was seeing. Some sort of torture, or a messed up religious cult? There was a man dressed head to toe in a potato sack smoking weed, a kid and her dad was screaming and kicking around like they had Tourette Syndrome.

What could he do?

Two shots were fired at the glass in the room. Jim ran in and shattered the glass. Loeb was an asshole but his daughter was an innocent. He needed to save the kid.

With his gun pointed at the psychologist and the Roman gangster, Jim proceeded to dictate the Miranda Rights. Perhaps he was acting a little bit rashly. It wouldn't be the first time. Whatever that smoke was, it was flooding through the window screen he just shot out. It was in him now. His vision was becoming distorted and unfocused.

He saw Strange give some sort of device to Falcone who put it over his nose and mouth. Some sort of mask to filter the fog. He saw them surround him…wait but there were only Strange and Falcone…and the Scarecrow. Now he was faced with hundreds of them. The police lieutenant felt a sharp pain as he was knocked to the ground.

He looked up expecting to see that sack head but when he did, when he stared out into the fog and what emerged out with had stopped his heart. 'Barbara?'

His wife walked up towards him but she wasn't…her eyes were vacant, unmoving. Her face…no he couldn't look. Her jaw was ripped open, hanging only by a thread of muscle. It was just like what he saw all those years ago, when he was a kid…the reason he and his mom left Gotham.

She had in her hands a baby, wrapped in up in a crimson cloth. It was blood, painting the floor in red. More blood was dripping from her mouth and then she started to speak, or at least try to, 'Nothing to fear but fear itself.' She raised an axe he hadn't seen her holding before and then raised it to strike.

Gordon could feel his fingers slipping on his pistol and was about to spring into action when a hand roughly pulled him back. When he saw who it was he was frozen stiff. It was the Batman.

The image of the Batman, his cape draping behind him that looked like it were made of bats, flapping their wings, burnt into his memories. He walks toward the smoke, Falcone had retreated to God knows where, and even Hugo Strange had seemingly vanished. Barb had gone too, and the Scarecrow stood in her place, awaiting the vigilante. That was the last thing he remembered seeing before darkness overtook him.

When Gordon's eyelids finally parted, he found himself no longer in a hostile room but in open space with a chill running up his forearm. He felt a shadow pass over him had his orbs pop out like saucers. His vision was a little fuzzy and his ears were ringing but he could see him, the Batman, or at least the back of him, climbing up onto a ledge and then as quickly as he appeared he was gone again.

It was hard but I got myself up onto my feet and explored. He was on the roof of Arkham, but he now saw that the place had erupted into lights. Red and blue lights were everywhere now yet all that Jim could see was hellfire, hear the screams of the damned masquerading as voices shouting his name, and the image of his wife, her face contorted in agony, pain of betrayal burning through him.

He was shaking and not even the weariness could stop it, like his body had been hijacked for the sole purpose of shivering. He was still grasping his gun, but he could not let go, and something told him he could never let go.

—Legend of the BATMAN—

Author's Note:

I've been playing with the notion of making these chapters separate stories and one-shots. As such I am open to include stories written by others, giving you acknowledgement for your work of course. I just feel it might give credence to its name as Legend of the Batman. If anyone is interested, just write the story out and then copy and paste it as a private message and make sure you include a by-line as well.

For this story, I made the mistake of leaving it half done for months, the tone seems a little miss matched a bit but I tried. Lesson to be learnt here was that if you have an idea, write it down, even if it doesn't seem presentable. People change with every passing moment and how I was and thought when I started had changed after months of inaction.

I find a fascination with this type of psychology. Fascinated by what causes certain types of emotions in a person and how they affect actions. I'm no expert so as a CAUTION: NOTHING I WRITE SHOULD BE INTERPERATED AS MEDICAL FACT.