AN: 'Fear of enclosed spaces', quite common in one form or another.
So the Batman-novel thing I scored for fifty cents and borrow from sometimes (Fear Itself) has a Subway Incident. This is a little bit borrowed from that. And by 'borrowed' I mean 'we're in a dark tunnel and Scarecrow is here'. Arkham-verse full stop, complete with…face.
I FORGOT to post this, so, uh…sorry?
McStaken-One day. One day...beware the short ones. I am in charge, thank you very much. And Kitty...very well. Beware the short ones it is.
Gotham's underground is a maze, and no amount of Google-fu or library skills can help a person navigate them. Half of the old tunnels run off into the sewers-and thus into Killer Croc's domain-and the other half…it's a grab bag. But it's dangerous, and no one in their right mind wanders around down there.
Naturally, it's a common teenage hangout.
It's dark, when one goes down there. Pitch-the strongest of flashlights only cut a few feet through the blackness in any direction. It's not quiet. The sounds of the trains rumble through miles of old stone, and Gotham city, well, it's a noisy place. At any given hour you can hear Driver A telling Driver B that their father should have stuck his prick in the garbage disposal, and Driver B telling Driver A that their mother is an STD-infested whore, and…
Well. It's loud.
The underground is usually empty, but every so often groups of thrill-seekers will cross each other's paths. It's not common, but it happens.
RUMBLE-RUMBLE-RUMBLE!
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Yeah, okay, so Malcolm probably shouldn't be down here alone, but it's not like that much more dangerous than wandering around the city proper. It's Gotham, the cesspit of America, where all criminals eventually come to.
Well, Metropolis has some, but fuck Metropolis. It's too bright there. Freaks.*
Besides, his boss asked him to come.
Maybe. If that really was the boss.
Nobody's seen the Scarecrow for six months, not since the incident at the asylum, and it's been a bitter, bitter debate as to whether or not he's dead. Malcolm always kinda figured nah, 'cause the Masks never really die, but the Joker…
Eh, the Joker'll probably come back. Nobody stays dead in Gotham.
Whatever the case, he got a text this morning-kinda weird for the boss, but okay-and he hauled ass to look less like a slob. The boss doesn't like it when the boys look like slobs.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Shuuuuuuuu.
Why here, though, man? Why not at a nice, respectable part'a town, huh? Hell, even one'a the buildings around Crime Alley would be better than down here.
He's just starting to think that maybe this is all bullshit when a yellow glow cuts through the darkness. Flashlight, close-HOLY MARY ON A FLYING UNICYCLE.
It's Crane-the boss is unmistakable-but…uh…
Yeah. Croc. The rumors about Croc were not wrong.
He swallows, looks somewhere into the crushing darkness over the man's shoulder. Crane is silent. Richardson-where the hell has she been, anyway?-adjusts her grip on his arm. Jesus. How.
Why.
The mangled…face (and oh, he's grateful for the dark, the flashlight's not showing all of it and he could cry from relief) tilts.
"Malcolm." Jesus. Even his voice is mangled, gravelly and raw. "Glad you could make it."
He nods. Above them, a train speeds by and a few rocks fall to the ground. That doesn't help the situation at all.
"Uh, s-s-sure, boss. Y'know. Uh, s'good to see you're…" He swallows, tries to be calm. "Alive."
Crane snorts, a nasty sound that turns into the gurgling, death-rattle cough of an old man.
"You could say that." He takes a dragging step closer, the shambling movement making him look more like a scarecrow than ever-tilting, jerking, inhuman.
It's times like these that Malcolm wishes he worked for the Riddler.
"So, uh, whatcha need, sir?"
More dust falls. His lungs seize, but he's not sure if it's being down here or the closeness of the boss that's doing it.
Richardson starts to cough. It's different than Crane's-deeper, painful chokes that leave her gripping him like she'll fall if she doesn't. Malcolm knows that sound. Nana had it, before she died.
Shit.
"It's time to pay Gotham a final visit, Malcolm." Crane says softly. "Leave a…parting gift, if you will. You're going to be the harbinger."
Uh. He's not sure what that is, but it sounds bad and he doesn't want to.
"Sir-"
And then he's choking on something bitter and definitely not dust.
The tunnel closes even tighter around him, darkness curling around his limbs in vicious tendrils and crawling down his throat. He stumbles to his knees, struggling to shrink down enough for the space to grow, and it follows it follows.
"They'll find you soon." the Scarecrow snarls, and syringed fingers brush ever-so-gently across Malcolm's neck. "But will it be soon enough for you?"
The darkness down his throat reaches his lungs and squeezes, and he has no breath to scream.
THE END
*Seriously, though, when Gordon was trying to get Falcone to come back in this season of Gotham, my only response was, 'holy shit, I've never seen so much sun on this show before and I'm frightened of it'.