Hope you all are enjoying this! Decided to go ahead and post the next chapter since I'm snowed in at least for today and tomorrow. Please feel free to drop a review or message me a comment if you like. Reviews help to keep me writing. =)
Chapter 5: The Scarecrow's New Clothes
The smell was horrible. It smelled like old rank milk and rotting fruits and vegetables. Crane opened his eyes rather reluctantly to see an old can of beans emblazoned with a happy pig – it was even smiling at him. As soon as he realized he was inside of a dumpster, he leaped up to get out as quickly as possible, pushing up on the heavy lid with a grunt before climbing out into the alley. The lid clanged closed behind him, and only then did he notice the distinctly cold breeze. He gasped in embarrassment as he realized he was stark naked with merely a few remnants of trash on his bare chilled skin, his face turning bright red as he looked for something to use. Grudgingly, he turned back to the trash canister, poking in his head and an arm to see if something was left of his clothes. The very thought of his beautiful mask being covered in grime and filth made his heartbeat skip up an octave. His clothes though weren't there, and Crane couldn't decide whether to be pleased or annoyed. He wasn't sure where his mask was now, not to mention the rest of his costume. He finally spied a set of clothes that would fit him unfortunately: a nasty set of pink sweatpants and a grungy white T-shirt with cheerful handwriting, 'Gotham: Come Visit the City that Never Sleeps!' Beneath the writing was a cheerful coffee cup in front of a black and white city skyline. It had moth holes eaten throughout the bottom section, but at least it wasn't covered in maggots.
He shuddered, realizing just how ridiculous he was going to look walking down the street in this getup. However he couldn't exactly be picky. He needed to find out where he was and how to get back to his hideout. He pulled up the pink pants, noticing they only came down to his calves. Beautiful. The T-shirt fit better though, and he straightened it out absently as though he were flattening out one of the finely tailored suits he used to enjoy at the Asylum. Of course the only question remaining though, was what exactly happened last night? He tried to remember, tentatively pressing his memory banks for information, a bit nervous about what he might find. There was the warehouse, and that strange pain he'd felt. He recalled shaking, and the Batman approaching him like some mad beast. But then something else… oh yes, the pellets of the toxin rolling into the spilled vats. And for some reason he'd passed out, but anything beyond that was a mystery.
Was he ill? How had he gotten from the warehouse to a trash dump? And why the hell was he naked? He didn't feel sore, perhaps a little achy in places but he chalked that up to spending the night in a dumpster. Tentatively he made his way out to the street, wandering down next to the shops for any sign of where he was. 10th street and Vreeland Avenue that would mean he was in north Midtown, near Monolith Square. That was clear across town! Was the Bat trying to be funny, playing some sort of joke on him?
He started the long trek back to the hideout, his fury rising with every step. He probably could have tried the subway, but seeing as he didn't have any money or even his fear gas, that would be potentially difficult. And considering his current state, it was probably best if he didn't attract too much attention. For the most part the streets were empty. The sun had just started to rise and it was a Saturday after all, but as more people and vehicles appeared, Crane had to resort to the back alleys to continue his trek. At least it was morning though; most of the gangs and druggies would be passed out somewhere, slinking back to their holes somewhere out of sight.
After a few hours, he could tell he was getting closer to the Narrows. The blank empty stare of the homeless and the mindless ramblings of the crazies were telling of their fear toxin overdose. Crane couldn't help but grin as he passed one man repeatedly banging his head against a brick wall, the bloody smear dripping down the crevices. How beautiful it was to see the fruits of his labor. Damn it was good to be closer to home!
Eventually he came to Gotham River. A large sign had been placed over the bridge proclaiming it closed, but that wasn't the path he typically used anyway. He decided the quickest method was best considering that he had no weaponry, so he took the squeaky old freight elevator down on the side of one decrepit storage building.
Bottom level: straight into the old sewers. The expansive dirt caverns had been everything: from a Gotham waste dump to passageways for the Underground Railroad. He hopped out, enjoying the smell of the dirt and the empty blackness surrounding him. He listened for any movement before pulling a flashlight out of a nearby crate and heading deeper into the tunnels. Most of the lesser groups kept clear of this place; they thought it haunted, and who could blame the superstition? Crane's footsteps echoed against the empty walls of the tunnel, the sound traveling down caverns which so rarely received visitors. Personally Crane thought the place suited him just fine. Only a few of the masks even used it – Crane himself had originally discovered it thanks to a gregarious Joker one morning. As far as Crane knew, they were the only ones that used it.
It took him a good half hour before he came to a rickety ladder that led up to an old uncovered manhole. The familiar scent of the surrounding bushes were almost overwhelming once he reached the streets, but he knew he was in familiar territory and no longer had to be as cautious. True there were some gangs that had found their way into the Narrows, but those were few and far between. Most of the people within the island were mad or near to being mad. Meaning it was quite easy to push their fragile minds, especially for him. Making it one of the prime reasons he preferred hideouts in this district.
He made his way back to his hideout, and started peeling off his clothing as soon as he'd locked the front door. The odor from the garments made his stomach turn, and he was more than eager to soak in a nice clean tub. A few minutes later, steeping amidst his lavender bubble bath, his mind could finally unwind somewhat and instead turned to the confusion that the day had been. He glanced at the clock, only one in the afternoon and it felt like he'd woken up days ago. He stretched his body under the white suds, wishing he could pierce the emptiness that had filled his memories. He was blocking something out, that much was obvious, but he couldn't tell what. He did know that the more he thought on it, the more his stomach seemed to ache. As he stepped out of the warm water and into the cool bathroom air, his stomach was cramping quite badly.
Feebly he clutched his stomach, hunched forward like one of the many gargoyles poised on the Gotham Cathedrals. Still dripping with suds he rushed to the toilet and hurled his innards.
After a few minutes his stomach certainly felt better, but his eyes grew wide at what he saw in the contents of the porcelain bowl: a long serpentine S-shaped coil that could only be part of an intestine. A small intestine even, his acute mind corrected. He wanted to vomit again, but not only did he know he had nothing else to puke, but he was also afraid of what else he'd see. He flushed and watched the intestine get slurped up into the pipes of Gotham's sewer system. It had surely seen worse than some partially digested entrails, but that didn't make Crane feel any better.
He washed his face with icy cold water, and dressed, his gaze distant as his mind churned. They were intestines, and not only that but ihuman/i intestines to be exact. Crane's persistently logical mind even flashed up images of cadavers showing exactly where that particular section was located, and guessing what gender the victim probably had been. He brushed his teeth with as much minty paste as he could squeeze onto his toothbrush – one, two, three times. But it didn't matter how many times he did it, the image still wouldn't be erased from his mind. He left the bathroom, noticing momentarily how pale and shaky he appeared in the mirror, and shuffled into the kitchen. He pulled out a glass, fetched a bottle of water, and eased himself down on the couch. It didn't do any good to calm his spinning head.
How could he have eaten a woman's intestines? Not even the Batman was capable of force feeding him, though that kind of tactic would explain why his mind had blocked it out. But the nudity? The dumpster? He dragged a hand through his wet hair. The pieces just weren't adding up. Somewhere between Batman at the warehouse and the dumpster this morning, he'd partaken in cannibalism. And although Crane had to admit he had a certain fascination and understanding for cannibalism, it was completely from a scientific standpoint. Never would he actually want to eat another person.
He let out a breath shakily. The water was cool on his throat, and it was also the least likely to upset his sensitive stomach. He turned the switch on the radio, and closed his eyes for a moment. Hopefully the business of Gotham would turn his mind away from the horrific day he'd had.
"… like channel 62: Your number one station for news, sports, and all the hits you've been craving! We're currently covering the latest events from Gotham's Animal Attacks. This is John and Susan in Gotham's Daily News Bites. So Susan, just as a recap for our listeners, how many bodies have been found now?"
"I believe the tally's up to 5 now, John. Three from last month, and two from last night."
Crane's eyes shot open. He scrambled to turn up the volume.
"Now the two from last night are a real mess, right? At first the police thought there was just one animal on the loose, and now there might be two."
"That's right, John. The killings last night were declared to be the result of two separate animals. The attacks were committed across town and the time of death was at around the same time of night."
"So my question is this: why aren't the police considering this second murderer a copycat? I mean, Gotham's had her fair share of those."
"True, but the killers are clearly not human, John. Judging from the bite marks, and the state of the victims, police claim the creatures could either be mountain lions or bears."
"Lions and bears? Oh my!"
The duo laughed that ridiculous, fake laugh and Crane switched it off. He'd heard more than enough. As much as he hated to admit it, he was starting to get a good idea of what had happened last night. Although Crane wasn't much for television or film, he'd read enough horror novels to have a good idea of what his symptoms could mean. It in fact had been nagging at him from the back of his mind ever since he'd woken up in the dumpster, but his scientific skepticism had kept him straight. But now the odds were stacking up against him, and like it or not, Crane had to admit the possibility.
The creature that had bitten him had somehow turned him into… well, whatever the creature was. And although the word lycanthropy immediately popped into his head, Crane shuddered at the thought. Was he really willing to blame the supernatural for this series of events?
He sighed, taking a long drink from his glass. It was madness to believe such things. Perhaps if he thought of his condition as a disease, it would be easier to diagnose. Diseases were something he understood. He thought over his symptoms, starting with his first realization that something was off. The wound: the bite in his leg that had healed so quickly. Was there any scientific explanation? He furrowed his brow. No, nothing that he'd ever heard of; certainly not in the scientific world. That would leave the fairly impossible option still available. But how could he test it?
If he remembered the horror novels he'd read, silver had been a common weakness. Did he have any silver lying around? He headed into the bedroom and started rummaging through the closet. This was where he typically tossed discarded belongings from his test subjects – items he couldn't immediately use, such as wallets, credit cards, and the like. Surely there'd be something silver about. He pulled out a handful of purses, some of them still stained with blood, and started dumping them, sorting through them piece by piece.
Then his finger brushed against cold metal, except what started as a cold sensation turned to a fiery pain. He pulled his hand back with a gasp. Cautiously, he moved aside the handkerchiefs and pressed powder cases to find a detailed silver lipstick case. He swallowed hard, staring at his unsuspecting adversary with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Tentatively, he grazed it once more, and again the pain shot through him strong enough to make him cry out. He wrung his hand meekly and eyed the red sores; it looked like he'd burned them on a stove rather than a woman's lipstick container.
Somehow he'd suddenly contracted a fierce allergy to the fine metal. It was enough evidence to convince him, reluctant though he was. But not for a moment did he think he would remain contaminated by this sickness. With enough time and diligence, Crane was certain he could find a way to cure himself. With a brilliant chemical mind such as his, how could he possibly go wrong?
Crane returned to the kitchen, a jaunty spring in his step. Now that he knew what was wrong with him, all he had to do now was fix it. Which, considering his expertise in chemicals, shouldn't take very long. His stomach was now feeling much more at ease, so he started making himself some dinner. Despite his evening escapades, he was still hungry – starving even. Perhaps that was also a sign of the illness. No matter. For now his strange cannibalistic tastes would have to deal with a frozen meal.