Three months.
Schwarzwald spends three months in Hell.
Everything is terrifying; everyone and everything causes sheer panic within her, makes her heart race like a champion horse. People look like fanged monsters, walls and shadows are horrors unimaginable, she catches sight of herself in a mirror once when she bathes and her own face is that of an eyeless, rotting corpse, lips sewn shut with thick black wire and parted enough for her teeth to be visible, those teeth jagged and broken and bloody, maggots pouring out of her empty black sockets. When she opens her mouth to scream in terror, her corpse-self in the mirror opens its mouth too and the black wire strains and rips her rotting purple-tinted lips, and blackish green rot runs down her chin like blood.
By the time the orderlies rush in, she's in the fetal position in the corner, screaming through her sobs.
Crane watches her crumble. Scarecrow takes extreme pleasure in watching. The two alters aren't antagonistic; they switch on the fly, when it's needed. When they talk in their group therapy meetings, Scarecrow takes over and manages to convince her that snorting the white filmy powder in her room will stop the hallucinations.
He almost dies laughing in the back of Crane's mind when she comes back the next week, catatonic and in a straightjacket, scratches down her cheeks from where she's clawed herself. Crane himself is slightly annoyed because all the laughing gives him a migraine.
Eventually though, Crane and his malicious other self begin to bore of Schwarzwald. He also, very slightly, pities the dazed, strained and pathetic woman when he goes through old associates still working at Arkham and gets a hold of her file. So, not as an act of mercy but more out of boredom, he talks with her. The doctors write off her hallucinations as a psychotic condition, but Crane knows what they really are.
"Tell me about the things you see." He requests, as they sit together at dinner. He more or less wants something to do here and wants to see if he can crack Schwarzwald. It's something to occupy himself with.
"Horrible…things…darkness…corpses…toothed shadows…" Schwarzwald murmurs, staring blankly at nothing at all, her voice quiet and dead. Crane nods very slightly.
"And these are things you possess phobias of, correct?"
"Darkness…yeah." She says, staring at the mash of whatever's on her tray.
Hey, tell her that she could go blind.
"There is a possibility of blindness, from the symptoms you've described and the medications you say that you take." Crane says, smoothly, and Schwarzwald turns paper white. Dark satisfaction builds deep in the good doctor's chest. He keeps a calm, apathetic air about him as he speaks again. "Michelle, you worked for the Joker, correct?"
"Mmm." Schwarzwald murmurs, chewing nervously on her Styrofoam spork. Crane wonders, briefly, if she's hallucinating right now.
"Has he spoken with you since your arrivals at Arkham?"
"No. The doctors won't let us speak. I think he's been in isolation though, so he's probably alone too. He probably misses me." She adds that last part in a near-whisper, as if she's trying to convince herself only.
Crane smirks very slightly, watching her play with her sleeve. He's not sure who it is, but he thinks that it's the Crane half that sees the opportunity for emotional devastation here, and it's Scarecrow that decides to seize the opportunity. "Are you sure? He seems very friendly with Harleen. Doctor Quinzel, to you."
Jonny-boy, you're so nasty. Thought I was the only one with it in me. Scarecrow croons, and it sounds like he's doing it right in Crane's ear as Schwarzwald begins to wonder and worry. It's very obvious in her eyes.
"You don't think…Joker is replacing me…do you?" Her voice is soft, sad. So pathetic.
"From what I've heard, his moods are flippant at best." Crane deadpans, feeling Scarecrow's intense amusement building. "It's quite possible."
She wails, childishly, and slumps over against him, her head on his shoulder. He puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her off, irritated. She should be grateful that she wasn't committed when he was in charge, because if she would've pulled these sorts of stunts on him back in those glory days, she would've been sucking down a good, concentrated dose of fear gas with a growling Scarecrow watching her writhe.
Good thing she and he aren't in that era of Arkham. Regrettable, actually, but good for dear Schwarzwald.
"Don't touch me." He snaps, though it's still in his very quiet nature, and she lays her head down on the table and begins to wail. Scarecrow growls in Crane's ear, dangerously.
Shut her up. Shut it up. You know how to do it right here and now, so do it. He snarls, venom in his voice, and it's too easy for Crane to reach over, laying a hand on her shoulder, and reach for her neck. She slumps against his side, sobbing into his Arkham jumpsuit, and Crane feels his temper flare at the touch and it only increases when he feels tears soaking through the cotton. His hand closes on the back of her neck and for a moment, he's filled with a huge urge to just snap her neck right then and there. A hard twist to the left, she goes down, lights out. Sure, they'll probably put him in solitary for a long time, maybe a year at the most, but who cares? He's going to be here for life anyway.
Come on, Crane. Kill it. Do it! Scarecrow snarls, as she lets out a fresh set of sobs, and Crane presses his thumb hard on her pressure point. She slumps, and he pushes her off of him and ignores her as she falls to the floor. Orderlies come and check on her, and they assume she's passed out from exhaustion, which would make sense; there's no way to tell if she's gotten any sleep at all for a few nights.
You pussy.
Crane ignores Scarecrow's humph, his insults, and his sulking, and merely finishes his Arkham dinner as the orderlies drag Schwarzwald out and to her room again. He doesn't, however, want Scarecrow to stay in a foul mood, because that means that he'll be in a foul mood too, and the both of them in foul moods isn't good at all.
'Scarecrow…how about a compromise?' He really shouldn't have to bargain with a separate personality to not get in a pissy mood, but he has to.
Yeah? What? The alternate personality barks, definitely in a terrible mood now. He wanted blood, or a severely and grotesquely twisted neck. Neither him nor Crane like being touched. At all. Crane can at least pretend to deal with it, but it irks Scarecrow to no freaking end for someone to touch him when they're not wildly grabbing for support while a psychotropic fear toxin kicks in, about two seconds before the mask turns into a growling, fanged horror and they either scream or go completely silent from catatonic terror.
'There are always the extras.' Is all Crane needs to say, before Scarecrow goes silent for a moment, and then, begins to snicker. And then it turns into malicious laughter.
The extras! Why didn't I think of that? Jonny-boy, you're a wonder, you know that? A sick, twisted monster of a wonder, but a wondrous one. Upper extra, or lower?
'Upper, of course.' Crane sighs, standing as the guards begin to lead them back to their rooms. 'It will only take a moment and then…you know what happens.'
You'll have to hold your breath, close your eyes, and walk backwards.
'Did you think I planned to poison myself? I've had enough of our little toy; once in a lifetime is most assuredly enough.'
Hah. Tell that to the twitchy broad. But no; you want to examine her, don'cha? Can't blame you. Can't say I wouldn't want to get my hands on her, either.
Of course Scarecrow would have to say that. Crane sighs, under his breath. 'I'm not that sort of man, Scarecrow. I want no part of something like that.' He doesn't want anything remotely sexual out of the woman; he's very controlled, can keep a hold on those sorts of urges. Scarecrow, unfortunately, happens to embody all of his negative traits, and that happens to be one of them.
Just let me have ten, twenty minutes with her, alone. C'mon, Jonny-Jonny, ten minutes all to myself, and then I let you take things again. I just want a test ride; no harm in that, right?
'Lecher.'
Takes one to know one, Jonny-boy. Takes us to know us, right, mister shrink?
Crane doesn't answer as he walks very deliberately down the hallway with his guard, who isn't paying attention. Crane slips slightly ahead of him, around a tight corner, and has enough time to very quickly hurry and find one of his many little hiding places, and grab what he wants out of it. By the time the guard strolls around the corner, Crane is walking slowly to his cell door and waiting to be let in. He walks in when the door is opened, and plots with the rasping, delirious voice inside his head.
A week passes, and Schwarzwald walks into group therapy stringy-haired and dull-eyed. She's spotted Joker passing in the hallway, without his lovely doctor for once, and she stops him on the way to her therapy. The guards keep pushing them on their respective paths, but the two manage to talk for a brief minute.
"Joker." Schwarzwald is too tired, too exhausted to manage any enthusiasm. Joker, blond and pretty, looks at her with a curious expression, as if he can't quite recognize her.
"Schwarzy. You look like a drowned rat. Having any, ah…problems?" He asks, quite curiously, and she nods slightly as her guard seems to stop and chat with Joker's. They don't give a fuck about whether these two are supposed to be talking or not, and that's very good. Thank the lord for small mercies, like shitty guards.
"Hallucinations. Arkham…you said it was Wonderland. It's horrible here." She whines, childishly, as she gets whenever she's around him. He chuckles, a dry and raspy laugh, glancing down the hallway.
"Schwarzy, dollface, I never said it was a good Wonderland." Joker laughs, before turning to face the approaching doctor Quinzel. She's a very lovely woman, Schwarzwald notes; when she approaches Joker, his posture seems to relax and so does hers, before she looks to the guards.
"What are you waiting about? Do your jobs." She seems tense, eager to get them away. One begins to lead the Joker and is immediately cut off by the impatient doctor. "I'm taking the Joker, as usual. Go, go on. Take that one." She gestures to Schwarzwald, flippantly, before looking to Joker as one guard leaves and the other grabs Schwarzwald by the upper arm and begins to drag. Before she loses sight of them, however, Schwarzwald is sure that she sees Quinzel's eyes soften somewhat and Joker moving closer than he probably should be.
Understandably, Schwarzwald is very dispirited.
She walks into the group therapy room to see only Crane and a new doctor. The other chairs are empty. She sits down in hers, as Crane remains still, cool, and ignoring her completely. The door is shut behind them and the doctor looks up between Schwarzwald, twitchy and nervous, and Crane, calm and detached. After a minute of silence, he looks between them.
"I have no idea what we're going to do with two of you, and I don't really give a damn either. Sit here and be silent; I have work to do." He stands, walking to the door. Does everyone just up and leave the room at random spaces in time? Maybe they trust Crane to keep control of the other, drugged-out patients. Or maybe they just don't expect Crane or Schwarzwald to do anything crazy, though with Schwarzwald's condition, that's a stupid sort of idea. Or maybe they just don't care. Probably that last one. The good doctor leaves the room, and Crane stands quietly, walking around the room. It's the first time Schwarzwald has seen him leave his chair during these sessions.
"Michelle." He says her name, coldly, while he walks to the door the doctor has just left through. Schwarzwald glances at him, suspicion currently overriding the slowly growing feeling of unease and fear. "Tell me…what are you afraid of?"
The lock clicks shut from the inside. Schwarzwald immediately begins to panic.
"Wh…what are you doing?" She stands from her chair and begins to slowly back up, as he keeps his back to her. She doesn't see what he's hidden under the sleeve of his Arkham uniform, and is now running his finger along.
"Questions have answers." Crane demands, coolly. Schwarzwald's body is beginning to tremor, very slightly.
"U-um…the dark…insects…corpses…" She gasps the last word, feeling her heart beginning to pick up pace as he turns around, his eyes flickering behind the lenses of his glasses.
'Ready to take the show?'
Anytime, Jonny-boy.
"So…Schwarzy." Crane says now, but his voice is sickly sweet and a malicious smile is on his lips. He walks towards her now not with small, quick steps, but quick, predatory strides. Schwarzwald immediately freezes, pure terror in her poisonously green eyes, and she sidles along the wall away from him, terrified. "Oh, now don't be that way, hunny. I just want to talk." He croons, and as she tries to run he chases her down easily, grabbing her blond hair and tossing her into the wall.
"C-Crane?!" Schwarzwald yelps, confused, afraid, and 'Crane' laughs sharply.
"No no no, Schwarzy dear; think of me as the half of Jonathan Crane that got him into this asylum. Call me Scarecrow, honey." He snarls, and when she tries to slip away from him, he grabs her by the shoulder and pins her to the wall, leaning back and out of range of what he's about to do with her. "Pay attention; we're about to learn a lesson."
With that he sprays her in the face with a burst of white gas, leaning back enough and pulling one arm up to his mouth, breathing through the crook of it as he steps back and away from the cloud. Schwarzwald gasps and wheezes; then, things start to go hazy, wild.
"Welcome to Hell." He growls, and he doesn't even need the voice changer to terrify her with those words. Though he kind of wishes he had his mask still; nothing quite like leering in someone's face with that thing on. Scarecrow, for a moment, wonders if they've still got it as evidence or if they've trashed it.
'It's probably still around here somewhere.'
Then we'll just have to find it later, won't we Jonny? Oh, look alive! She's coming back.
As soon as Schwarzwald looks up at Crane, she shrieks in unholy terror. He's some sort of ungodly abomination, skin a pale, bloated corpse purple, jaw hanging completely open like a snake detaching its jaw before devouring a meal alive, rows of crooked, twisted inch to two inch long teeth framing a black mouth with a long, lolling tongue. But dear god, it's the eyes. They're almost completely white; no iris, but one tiny, tiny pupil smack dab in the middle of the sclera. When he laughs, the grotesque jaw flaps inhumanely and he grabs her shoulders and pulls her right into the horrific face, laughing, breathing over her face.
"Tell me what you see!" Scarecrow laughs, and she screams blue murder as he touches her. He shakes her, before throwing her to the floor so she can scamper away, wheezing and coughing and crying and all manner of noisy things. He grabs her by the ankle and twists her around, so that she can watch him grin and drag her back towards him, predatorily. He's no longer what he was before; now he's a corpse, exactly the kind she's terrified of; rotting, oozing pus, maggots crawling around inside holes in his flesh, mouth wide open in a horrifyingly wide grin with rotting black teeth and flies crawling out of his throat and across his face. His eyes are empty sockets full of buzzing wasps that crawl out and across his face, and they ooze sick yellow pus that runs down his cheeks like tears.
Schwarzwald doesn't even hear the doctor at the door, banging on it, demanding to be let in, before screaming at somebody to get the keys for the fucking door. Scarecrow knows he doesn't have much time left, and seeks to make the best of it.
"Did you know that pure terror is a very powerful thing?" He asks her, quietly and with a slight smile, and the hungering visage of a corpse looms in closer, as Schwarzwald continues to scream and shriek and cry and howl and beat at him, thrashing like an animal. "Of course you do." He can feel her pulse through the tight grip he now has on her throat and her heart is racing so fast that it's bound to fail soon, if he doesn't stop. He doesn't want to, however.
'Scarecrow, that's enough. You'll never have any more of your fun if she dies and they isolate us.' Crane reprimands and Scarecrow groans aloud.
You know what? You need to live a little; quit being such a bitch to the system.
"Besides, Schwarzy is having so much fun, aren't you?!" He laughs in her face, his own face just inches from hers, and she screams blue murder. Actually, she's not even screaming anymore, not really; she's making guttural animal noises of primal terror, she's foaming at the mouth, she's gagging on bile.
This is a good concentrated dose, and it's not just for fun, though that's a big part of it too; it's an experiment. Does she have any immunity to the toxin now that she's been exposed to it for so long? Will she recover on her own, or will she stay in this state until her heart gives out or she just goes catatonic? Crane and Scarecrow sure aren't going to use any antitoxin, mainly because they don't have any, and even if they did, they probably wouldn't cure her. No fun in that, is there? She won't be useful as an experiment subject if they do that, anyway.
The door flies open and guards rush them, grabbing Scarecrow and dragging him away as he laughs, before he fades into Crane again and they shove him out the door. Orderlies, doctors, are swarming Schwarzwald, prepping tranquilizers, holding her down as she thrashes at all the corpses surrounding her now. Her naturally nervous state, as a side-effect of being in contact with trace amounts of the toxin for so long, has been amplified ten, a hundredfold. She stares blankly at the ceiling as they turn her head to keep her from drowning in vomit, foam on her lips and her body twitching, but limp now.
Of course they're going to interrogate Crane on exactly what he's done to her, though when they review the camera footage, they'll know. But with Schwarzwald, all they can do is drag her catatonic form to her room and strap her down, turning her head to the side while vomit and drool and bile and blood from how she's bitten her tongue and the inside of her cheeks to shreds run from her lips, and hope that she recovers.
Scarecrow and Crane sit in their isolation room, straightjacket tighter than usual, and they wait. It really depends all on Schwarzwald if her mind can recover from that hard a blow; if she recovers, it's a breakthrough in research on the toxin's effects on a long-term basis. If she doesn't…
Oh well, it broke the monotony.