AN: 'Fear of religion/god/gods', alternate title: 'Silence of the Lamb (of God)'.
Given Dr. Crane's…unfortunate…childhood, a surefire way to ensure that you do not survive your encounter with him is to bring religion into it. I'm telling you now, for your own safety, PRAY IN YOUR HEAD, NOT WITH YOUR MOUTH. Trust me, even if Batman shows up at that exact second, he'll just shoot you rather than let you walk away.
Recommended listening: Barnes Courtney's 'Hellfire'.
McStaken-Alfred is a gift to us all. And my initial response to the Twins was basically, 'I'm gonna die here.' In that moment, I was Indiana Jones running from the Kali Ma cult members.
It's a handy little bit of knowledge that the Scarecrow, for whatever reason, has zero patience for prayers if one is unfortunate enough to get caught up in one of his schemes. Nobody knows why and quite frankly, nobody cares. All they care about is 'don't do it and you might not die'.
Mary Macintosh is not a native Gothamite, and doesn't know any better.
So when her trip to the bank is interrupted by a man with a potato sack on his head and a scythe in his hand, she does what she's always done in times of stress-she gets down on her knees and prays for God to help her. If yes, praise the Lord. If no, the Lord works in mysterious ways. That's the way it works.
But not this time. This time she's barely gotten out an 'our father' when the man snaps around, limbs swiveling and locking like a child's toy, and closes the distance between them in three long steps.
"What did you say."
She can't answer. Her throat has swollen shut because he's right there and what does he want with her?
Long fingers grasp her collar, dislodging the cross there, and the burlap head tilts to the right with an unsettling crack! before he shoves her back onto the floor.
"We're taking this one." he tosses over his shoulder. "Now…where was I?"
Call him petty, but Jonathan has always enjoyed utterly shattering people's belief in a higher power.
What? It's ridiculous. He spent his entire childhood-if one could call that hellish time a childhood-being punished for other people's so-called sins, and no God, no merciful Christ, no one came for him.
As a rational adult, he can look back and say, of course not, because they're not real, but as a seven-year-old boy…
Well. There had been some deep feelings of confused betrayal.
But no matter! He knows better, now, and it's about time that others were dragged kicking and screaming out of their happy delusions.
And if Kitty had tugged him down for a kiss and breathed, "When you're done, if you really want to cement your spot in Hell…"
Ah, incentives. Today is going to be a good day.
The poor little fool's driver's license informs him that her name is Mary Macintosh, originally from Metropolis, aged twenty-four. Probably not used to being out on her own, given her age, and certainly not used to being out on her own in Gotham.
She'll never get the chance.
He had his men lock her in the empty broom closet downstairs for the time being while he got himself a cup of tea and calmed down, but she's been there for about three hours now and that's plenty of time to wait.
She's huddled in the back of the closet, crying softly, when he opens the door. Pathetic. She's old enough to be past that base response, surely. He was over it by thirteen, for heaven's sake, and he was subject to far more traumatizing things than being shut into a closet.
"Get up."
She doesn't move and he sighs, reaches in and drags her out by the arm. She's not even trying to fight him and really? Really? You can always, always spot the transplants-the locals at least have enough self-respect to tell you to fuck off.
He's not sure which is more irksome; the crying, or the swearing.
"Please…I don't know what you want-"
"Do you know who I am, Miss Macintosh?" She shakes her head and he represses a sigh. "My name is Jonathan Crane, child, though the papers usually refer to me as the Scarecrow." She blinks at him with wide, confused eyes. Why is she here. "Do you know what Gotham is famous for?"
She shrugs and she's going to say something if it kills her!
He hauls her to a chair and cuffs her to it.
"The longer I wait for an answer, the more irritated I'm going to get."
There's a bit of sniffling, and gulping, and finally a soft, "Th-the costumed…people."
Good enough.
"Very good. See? You're not a complete fool. Now. When we met earlier, you made a mistake. Do you know what that was?" She shakes her head. That's to be expected. "It'll come to you, I'm sure."
He falls silent after that, rifling through a handful of vials before deciding that yes, he wants to go with the most unpleasant one he's got. (As though there was ever really any doubt, but…)
"Y-y-you don't have to do this."
"It's a funny thing, my dear…I really do."
We agreed. This one's mine.
I just wanted to get a look! I'm not impressed, Jonny, she's already hyperventilating over there. Sheesh.
Scarecrow has a point.
He plucks the correct vial from its case and brings it over. Anticipation, he's found, really ramps up the reaction. Especially because this one doesn't seem to realize what's in store.
He takes his time holding the vial and the syringe up to the light, transferring the liquid and tapping out the air bubbles. This particular batch has an odd yellow sheen-probably a side effect of the cockroaches that have amplified the flower's potency-and he's well aware that the sight of it is…unsettling.
"What is that?"
"Hell in a needle, child, Hell in a needle."
She starts crying again in earnest and slumps forward, cross hanging at such an angle that it catches the light. He's tempted to rip it off and hurl it straight into the dustbin, but he refrains. Better, really, to tilt her head to the left and press the tip of the needle against the blue vein that makes itself visible.
"Please…"
"Try asking God to help you. See what happens."
She opens her mouth, probably to do exactly that, and he injects the full dose. This batch hurts, like a bad flu shot, and the shock of it makes her gasp and say nothing.
Excellent.
"God isn't going to help you, child." he says, withdrawing the syringe and returning to his work table to fetch a notebook. "He isn't coming. I speak from very personal experience in this department."
"Th-the Lord works in-"
He holds up a finger, scribbles down the time.
"Shh. Deep breaths, makes that work a little faster."
"What did you give me?"
"You'll see." It's been a long time since he's had such a naive subject. Everyone knows what they're in for, now, they know what to expect. Again, the anticipation helps, but with this one there's doubt, and it's been such a long time…
Her lips start moving but no sound comes out. He's not sure whether he's disappointed or relieved.
He can see the exact moment the toxin starts to take effect-her pupils shrink and her hands clutch at the chair. Her breathing changes, too-tightens up, an involuntary reaction to an increased pulse.
"They tell me the Devil can quote scripture." he says, circling the chair and leaning over her. She's staring off into the corner, swallowing desperately and shaking her head. "I suppose that's true. Isn't it Matthew who says, 'And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you'?"
She swallows again. Still no sound, and that is irritating because oh, she was so willing to make noise earlier!
"Answer me!"
"Th-the light of God surrounds me…"
Oh, really?
Not for long.
He clicks off the light. It's a little darker than he'd like, but a side effect of being practically nocturnal means he has better night vision than most, glasses or no. It garners a response, too-a short, sharp scream and a whimpered, "Please-"
"He's not coming, Mary. You know this by now, don't you?" Her breathing grows louder and he leans forward, forces her face away from the dark corner. "Go on, child. Admit it."
Her face is wet and sticky from tears and mucus and he makes a mental note to thoroughly disinfect once he's done here.
She doesn't admit it. Not yet. But she does start to scream in earnest, and it's telling, he thinks, that her screams are not for any imaginary savior, but for her father.
"He's not coming either, Mary. You're alone. Forsaken." Scarecrow squirms and pulls himself up for a moment, grinning. "Hail Mary, full of disgrace, the Lord has abandoned you."*
Her head starts to slump and he lets go of it, wipes his hand with a grimace.
"Tell me, child…where is your precious savior now?"
The only answer he gets is a wordless scream.
THE END
*Can't take credit for that, sadly-that is borrowed from Stephen King's Kingdom Hospital.