AN: 'Fear of doctors'-in this case a little less 'literal' and more 'Dr. Crane is a doctor and should be feared'. Alternate title: 'Pop Psychology'.
Harley's reimagining for WB's The Batman was kinda meh (she may be nuts, but not like that), but I DID like her show. Or, rather, what I could do with a show like that. -)
In other news, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, TV AUDIENCE!
McStaken-Nobody wants to get near Croc. It's a matter of safety. Mention that incident again and you will regret it.
Dr. Phil Drew smiles and waves and takes a seat on the amazingly uncomfortable set couch. He wasn't so sure about this at first, but the Joker and Harley Quinn sent squirting flowers (harmless ones, amazingly enough) and well…the ratings were higher than they'd been in weeks, so…
It'll be fine.
He takes a drink of water and hopes the ratings will go high enough to get them a new sofa. This one's scratchy.
Hopefully this will all go as well as it did before. He's a little curious as to what Crane and Richardson might send-black roses, maybe, or a little scarecrow doll.
"And we're back!" He smiles, shows all his teeth. It's Gotham Primetime Television, people want trustworthy-yet-sleezy. It's how they roll. "Tonight, we're looking into one of Gotham's most famous crime couples-Jonathan Crane, better known to all of you as the Scarecrow, and Kitty Richardson."
The audience claps politely. Drew says a mental prayer for luck and just goes for it.
"We'll be discussing their motivations, going all the way back to their troubled childhoods and first meeting in high school." His voice isn't shaking, is it? "So don't go anywhere, and we'll be back after a word from our sponsor!"
Yeah, he knows. Commercials out the wazoo. There's nothing he can do about it.
"It is my professional opinion that their motivation is not science at all, or even something as simple as a power complex, but rather a sexual sadism."
The audience claps politely (he thinks there might be a cue card that makes them do it, because that wasn't applause-worthy) and Drew takes a drink of his water. Fifteen more minutes. Christ.
The clapping dies down and then a couple of wise-asses keep doing it-on the stage behind him.
He turns around to see what the hell this is and feels his complaint crawl back down his throat to hide.
He wouldn't know either of them if he were to see them in the street, but the burlap mask hanging delicately from the man's pale fingers is a dead
Ha-ha, dead…fuck me.
giveaway.
"Bravo, Doctor." Crane's voice is dry and expressionless. "You got things exactly right, save for…oh, nothing major really, just…everything."
"I-I-I-"
"Stop stammering, it's irritating." His fingers move against the mask. "But everything's going to be fine now! We're here to help you fix your mistakes…but if any of you try to run, the building will be flooded with…what was your term…"
"Synthetic insanity." Richardson says icily. She pulls away from Crane's side and draws a gun.
No no please I'll retire I swear-
BANG!
One of the cameramen, a brave soul with his phone out, drops like a stone. Drew swallows the urge to vomit.
"I'm sorry, I-"
They settle onto the guest sofa. Nobody claps now and he's not sure if that will please them or enrage them. They don't complain, or do anything to the audience, so he supposes that not-clapping is a good thing.
"Where shall we start?"
He can't find any words that aren't, 'please god don't I'm sorry I'll leave the country'.
"Well, Doctor?" Crane smiles, a forced, brittle thing. "Do you wish to back up your theories? Think carefully."
"I'm so sorry the producers-"
"You're not a brave one, are you?" He raises an eyebrow. "So willing to throw your comrades to the wolves to save yourself…" The smile warms, a little. "I do so love getting ones like you."
Drew swallows hard. He'll stall-they're on the fucking air, the police are on their way, they have to be. He'll just to not make it obvious, and not make them mad.
"Kitty?"
She hangs over the arm of the couch and before Drew can say anything, she's fired the gun again. Someone in the front row slumps down, head gone, and there's screams. A few people are crying.
"You never answered my question, Doctor." Crane cracks his neck and grimaces. "The longer you go without doing so, the more people will die. And the bullets are limited-there's four left, then I start with the audience participation."
He's made a huge mistake.
Richardson lounges against the arm of the couch, legs thrown carelessly across Crane's lap, and smiles at him.
"It's easy. Just be good and cooperate and nothing bad will happen." She bites her lip and shrugs. "Maybe."
Great. The only ones who know the rules are the crazy people! If he gets outta this, he is moving, but first he's suing for unnecessary job risks and shit security and trauma.
"Well? Tick-tock, tick-tock…"
"No!" His voice is a little too hysterical and he swallows hard. "No. No, I don't think that I-"
"Oh, so you're making this up as you go?"
"That's not what I said-"
"Say what you mean. Go on. We don't bite."
He almost wishes for a bitey one.
"I-I…" Can't they blink? Would it kill them to blink? "Um…"
"You scared him." Richardson nudges Crane's ribs. "This is your fault."
"You were the one firing at the audience."
"But you're the scary one."
"I don't…have…back up." Drew whispers. Did they hear him?
They did. Crane looks at him in mock horror and murmurs, "The least they could do is hire an actual professional."
"Anybody can be a professional these days, with the internet."
"And they wonder why I despair of humanity…Philip, isn't it?" He can't speak, can't nod, and Crane's eyes sharpen. "Don't make me look it up."
"Y-yes." he whispers. Richardson drapes the hand with the gun over the arm of the couch. "Yes, that's my name, I-"
"What could have possessed you to start spreading such slander, hmm? Difficult childhood? Tragic breakup? Was a loved one a patient of mine?"
"N-no, like I said, the producers-it went well enough with the Joker-"
"I see." Neither of them look happy. "How unfortunate. For you."
"I-I-"
There's another shot and wailing. Richardson stretches.
"Stop talking, sweetie, it's not doing you any favors." She nudges Crane's ribs with her toes. "Maybe we should just go for the audience participation."
"I'm thinking we have to. Shame. I was hoping for an actual discussion…alas." He twists his fingers into a knot and straightens up. "I should know better, I suppose."
"You should."
Crane smiles. It's quite possibly the most horrible thing Drew has ever seen in his entire life.
"Please-"
"Shh." He stands up, joints snapping, and tilts his head. "I suppose you could count as an audience member…you're certainly no professional."
"No, no, please, I'm so sorry-"
"Relax." Crane says mildly, removing his glasses and tucking them into an inner pocket. "I'm a doctor."
It's crazy, but Drew will swear on his mother's Bible that Crane blinks and…isn't there anymore. Oh, the man is there, but the eyes aren't right.
What the hell-
The man pulls the mask over his head and moves forward, hands shooting out to rest on the arms of Drew's chair.
"Tell me, Drew…" WHAT THE HELL- "What scares you?"
He gets out one last no before Scarecrow's on him, one hand yanking his head back and the other bending backwards to activate the mechanism in his sleeve. Then smoke envelopes his face.
It's bitter and it stings and Drew tries and fails not to gasp for air. Don't breathe, don't breathe, nothing's real, nothing's real-
"WHAT DO YOU SEE?"
Scarecrow's face is melting, dripping liquid straw into his lap. He kicks out and the bastard dodges.
"Ah, ah, ah!"
"Get away from me!" He struggles to his feet, floor pitching beneath him, and catches sight of a white coat. "Get away!"
Scarecrow's only response is to laugh. Drew shrieks and tries to run, ends up falling flat on the floor.
Around him, the screams of the audience mix with his own.
THE END