The lanky figure slunk to the edge, flipping and falling over as if there wasn't a bone in its body. He hit the dirt with a light tap, like a cat, and took a few steps forward. His shifting, macabre grin seemed to pulsate with light and darkness as the creatures within moved.
"Was hoping for larger batch of test subjects…" it hissed in its strange, rasping tone. "But, hmm, yes… smaller clutch might be good for preliminary tests."
"Tests?!" cried Dick, balling his hands into fists. "What kind of crazed-up fruit-loop game are you playing?"
The creature's eyes, blank circles warbling and shifting in size stared at him incredulously. "Game?" it asked. "Not a game. Science."
The thing bowed, its hands of straw and burlap flapping helplessly in its own noxious wind. "Name is Dr. Crane, will be conducting this evening's experiment."
"What kind of freak doctor dresses up like a scarecrow?" John spat. Crane cocked a hideous eyebrow, scratching his cloth chin curiously.
"Scarecrow?" he asked. His eyes scanned the others, and seemingly autonomously he made little verbal notes to himself. "No disagreement from other subjects… they all see me as scarecrow then? Hmm-hmm-hmm… very, very interesting. Suggests… shared trauma? Common, primal perception of academic minds? Ooh, the possibilities."
In a streak of green smoke, the figure drew closer, and its scratchy hand caressed the cheek of Mary Grayson. John swung a punch, only for it to swerve behind him and lock eyes with Dick.
"You'll be Patient A." the scarecrow declared. "Tell me, A… had any negative relationships with physicians?"
The broad frown on the boy's lips twitched, and he snarled back "No, though I doubt you'll enjoy all the money you'll have to pay yours tomorrow!"
The boy swung with his fists, but the lurching, inhuman shape snapped backwards. No trouble to the boy, Dick hopped forward and jammed a kick straight into the "doctor's" chest. Straight in, and straight through. Dick stammered, a sickly feeling broiling in his stomach as he saw the figure's chest split open in a flurry of red straw. Crane seemed to care little, not even noticing the injury.
"Intense physical reaction… mental delusions, to point of coping by the body to match perceptions. Fascinating! The dose hasn't even taken full effect yet."
"Say something that makes! Sense!" the boy demanded, ripping his foot away. The scarecrow dissipated in his diseased fog, reconfiguring behind Dick. The young acrobat felt his muscles aching, rebelling as the day's earlier scuffles caught up to him. But he couldn't stop without this nutjob on the floor. He advances with a downward strike, but his passes through Crane's torso as if it wasn't even there. Only a wisp of smoke showing the trail of his swing remained as proof of the attempt. His teeth ground against each other, helpless frustration and rage scratching at his insides. He turned around to the only man he knew could stop him.
"Batman!" he called. "Help us! Do something!"
His pleas were to no avail. The Bat kneeled beside the broken corpse of Grayson's newfound friend, catatonic and staring vacantly ahead. His mouth locked in a pained, despairing frown. He turned to his parents, calling for them. Maybe if they ran, they could find police. Somebody to—
Dick knew instantly something was wrong. His parents were staring blankly ahead. Their eyes were glazed over, as if locked in a trance. He reached for Crane, wrapping his hands around dissipating scraps of a shirt. "What did you do to them?!"
"Nothing!" the scarecrow cackled. "That's the beauty. The patients are given no stimuli… they make it all themselves! Tell me, Patient A…"
He leaned in close, the smell of rotting flesh overcoming Grayson's senses.
"What do you fear most?"
A crackling, flaking limb erupted from Crane's stomach, grasping Dick's head and forcibly wrenched it around towards his parents. His eyes widened as the ground beneath them crumbled, and spiked of molten steel came from below. Their bodies were suspended in the air, wounds cauterized by the intense heat. They would not die quickly, and their screams echoed in his ears. For a moment, his soul wavered. And then, it lashed out. There was a bright, white flash, and before Dick could regain his sight, he realized he was somewhere different.
The dirt floors of the circus were gone. He seemed lost in an endless fog, faintly green and smelling of things he never wished to speak of. Memories of regrets long-buried wafted in the air, tingling his nose and burning his sinuses. Ahead sat the scarecrow on a winding staircase, beckoning him with a finger.
"I think it's time we had a private session, Patient A. Please,"
A couch made of nothing but the air appeared by Crane's side, and he patted it invitingly. "have a seat, tell me what's on your mind."
Dick shook his head. None of this could be real; it couldn't be. He had no clue where he was, but he'd beat the answers out of Crane's disgusting mouth. He advanced, pointing at the sick doctor before pounding his knuckles together. "Your mind's gonna be splattered all over my fists in a second, doc!"
He broke into a run, dashing up the staircase towards his prey. Crane hopped to his feet, retreating and taking notes as he went. "Patient A reacting highly erratically… allergic reaction, perhaps? Or does anger… no, willpower have an adverse effect? Oof, unfortunate implications for use on unwilling inmates at Arkham…"
"Dad!"
"John!"
John Grayson watched in despair as spindly, gnarled fingers drew his family into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the circus. For a moment he stood still, his body numb and shivering. But only a moment. A grim determination took him over. Was this the feeling his son felt, that spurred him into all his fights? As soon as he took him back from that… that whatever it was, he'd have to apologize for all the disagreements they'd had.
He understood now.
He charged into the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd have liked to tell himself he felt no fear, but he needed to be truthful. He was more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. But right now, that just spurred him on. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his family. That was no life at all, a life without them. He rounded the bend in the tunnel and was met with a dozen different rooms, where the other acts prepared in the last moments before their cue. John stepped silently down the hall, listening intently. There were no sounds he could hear clearly, but something was hanging in the air. Something dark, damp and foreboding. Whatever it was, he knew deep in his bones that it was something to hate.
A door creaked to his right. Inside, he saw a shadow slumped on the floor. He leaped through, and into a dressing room with a hole in its ceiling. Above, the weak seats had been smashed through. The shooter was collapsed in a broken heap on the floor, blood seeping into the carpet. John snorted with contempt for the despicable man, but he realized that he might not be useless.
He pulled his own noise to avoid the smell, and patted the corpse down for anything of use. Certainly enough, he felt a lump in his vest. John ripped it open and retrieved a handgun from the interior. The cold weapon sat like an unrefined lump of coal in his hand. It was a sobering thought, bearing a weapon like this. His finger tightened around the grip. Anything for his family.
"AAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEE—"
He recognized that voice. His wife. And it was close. John sprinted from the room and down the hall; he was certain he knew the room they were in. Gun clenched within his hands, he kicked the door down.
The weapon clacked to the ground, slipping from his loose grip. His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. His eyes took the information in, but his numb mind could hardly take it in. Suspended by festering black webs, his wife and child hung lifeless from the ceiling, their torsos scooped away by the digging claws of some beast out of sight. And between their dangling bodies, faces frozen in eternal fear, the scarecrow was watching him with its infernal grin.
Mary Grayson looked about frantically, calling the name of her husband. He'd disappeared without a sound. This couldn't be happening, not now! The family had to stick together. God knows what her impulsive boys would do under the stress. Fear filled her as she sought out those bright blue eyes, but a muffled yelp drew her attention away from him.
Her son was being dragged away, Crane's fetid claws wrapped tightly around his mouth, and a mocking finger brought to his ragged lips to shush her. The fluttering shadows of its body dragged the youngest Grayson to the base of the grand, wooden beams leading up to the highest platforms of their act. Shuddering, arachnoid limbs sprouted from the scarecrow's back, carrying it and its hostage up beyond Mary's reach.
She clenched her fists and her jaw. "Not my baby, you bastard!"
The matriarch sprinted to the ladder built into the beam, clambering up its reaches as fast as she could. Her mind was narrowed, focused like a speck of light through a magnifying glass. All she could think of was the ways she would hurt that creature when she reached it and her son.
Jim Gordon's mind was a bloody haze, his searing red vision distorted by pain, rage and shock. He recoiled from the wall he'd been smashed into as quickly as his breaking body would let him, but Slade gave him no respite. A perfectly-timed punch nestled deep in his gut and lifted the officer off of his feet. A gurgling, choking sound wriggled out of Jim's throat as he stumbled backwards, trying to steady himself.
Slade pursued him; Gordon was on the defensive. A cross-body strike that Gordon blocked with his upraised forearms; hurt like hell, but nothing important took a blow. He tried to counter with a jab, but the masked freak's waiting palm caught it and squeezed. Bones popped and crackled, and the Commissioner nearly screamed. But he wouldn't let himself take the easy way out.
Funnel that rage, make it yours!
Jim went for the unexpected move: the headbutt. His whole body shunted itself forward, and he met skulls with Wilson in a brutal collision. He drew blood from his own face, but the psycho recoiled. Just what he'd hoped for. He needed to press his advantage. He bounded forward and elbowed Slade in his exposed side, sending him reeling again long enough to throw a decent left hook and knock him upside his head. His jaw went straight up, and revealed his throat.
Jim was never one to play fair.
A fist rapped the crook's throat, and with a pained gag he smacked back-first into the wall. With his forearm, Jim pinned Slade by the throat and started throwing punches. Made no difference to him if he broke his own fist in the process, he'd crack that mask.
The blows rained down, but Jim's addled mind never noticed Slade reached and grab the knife stuck in his ribcage, and twist it by the grip.
Fresh blood sloshed from the widened wound, and Jim roared in unbearable pain. Frozen in place, the bleeding Commissioner could only watch helplessly as Slade returned the punches he'd been given. Jim felt his ribs crack and his nose shatter under the force of the blow, and with a backhanded smack the man of the GPD went hurtling to the ground, panting for what precious breath he could maintain. In the damp air, he could hear the advancing soles of his enemy's boots. Slade kneeled beside him, grabbing him by his hairs and pulling his head up to whisper in his ear.
"You're fading fast, Jim. For your own sake, I'd suggest you stop."
"…Hah… or what?" Jim asked breathlessly. "You'll kill me?"
"You'll die tonight either way." Slade assured him. "But if you'd stop fighting, it would be much more comfortable."
A bitter silence sat in the air, before Gordon scoffed. His elbow rose up and smashed into Wilson's mask, knocking him back and releasing his grip on the battered old soldier. Jim sprang from his prone state, looking like a cornered wolf as he sprung himself on top of the crook. Hands swiped through his pockets, the gleam of bronze knuckles wrapped tightly around his fingers as they collided with the bi-colored helmet. Two heavy punches disoriented the man called Slade, and an uppercut floored him onto his back. Jim straddled him, delivering punch after punch and roaring the entire time, "I die on my terms, not yours!"
One, two, three, four. Four more. A dozen strikes cracked and splintered the mask. As Gordon raised his fist for the coup de grace, Slade's arms jerked to life and pricked two spots on Gordon's chest.
Jim's arms fell limp, numb and lifeless. He nearly whimpered in confusion before Wilson's fist wrapped tightly around his tie, yanking him down and connecting a bone-shattering blow with the side of the officer's face.
Gordon's entire world flipped, and suddenly he was on the floor, dazed and staring up at the man straddling his waist, raising his fist for a retaliatory strike.
"My turn." Said Slade.
THWACK
Barbara's eyes slid open, pain scraping at her from every angle. Her memory was fuzzy. The man had pulled a grenade, and she'd barely had time to get Bruce out of the way before it went off. Far above, she could see the dizzying top of the tent, obscured by a hazy fog she could only guess was from the pain. How had she even survived a fall from that high?
She tried to move, and felt a pressure beneath her, like the ground was uneven. With all the force her weary muscles could provide she rolled to the left, shakily rising to her knees. She patted her head, and realized that, somehow, her cowl had managed to disappear. She looked where she had landed, thinking that she might have been laying on it. Her insides roiled in a furious rebellion as she saw the shattered shadow lying there instead..
She dove for the body of Batman and flipped him onto his back. Blood was streaking down from beneath his cowl, and his chest was still.
Barbara shuddered, and her breathing grew erratic. "Oh god, oh god… Bruce! Bruce, can you hear me? Say something!"
She pressed on his chest in vain. She had no idea what she was doing; she wasn't trained for CPR. She felt a need to try something, though. Her mind raced with terrible thoughts. He must have broken my fall… Oh god, but… what if he was already here? Did I do this?! Oh god no, I killed him!
She collapsed, prostrating over his chest and sobbing. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a bad dream. She should be waking up any moment. But she wasn't waking up. She never would be, and on some level she knew that. She nearly choked as she spluttered out, "I just wanted to help…"
"Help?"
She jolted up, gasping for air as she met eyes with a disgusting, ragged scarecrow not five feet away. His illuminated eyes glowed with a diseased green light, and his stitched lips hinted at a terrible mass churning within his burlap sack for a face. The scarecrow asked in a rasping, disturbed tone, "That's what you call help… You killed him, Barbara."
She faltered, her chest heaving and her face twisting into a despairing scowl as she rose to her feet. Her knees were knocking together from the terror in her, but a rage within told her to stand and fight. "Y-you're lying." She insisted. "You have to be."
"Oh, do I?" the scarecrow asked. He strode closer, his disproportioned long legs granting him uncannily large distance with every step. Barbara felt repulsed, but stood her ground. "I saw everything, 'Batgirl'. If you think you're worthy of that title… You tossed him away and down, down he fell… until crack! He hit the ground like a bleeding slab of steak."
Hot tears were bubbling from her eyes, as Barbara reached for the Batarangs. She clutched one tight in her hand, shaking her head and trying to deny what she already knew was true.
"And of course," the scarecrow continued. He pulled up beside her, leaning in from the side to whisper his poisonous words into her ear. "that just wasn't enough… was it? You fell from the same heights, the same perilous heights. And you landed right. On. Top. Of him. Any life that may have been in those little lungs… just pushed right out. Pop!"
"SHUT UP!" Barbara shrieked, lashing out with the tip of the Batarang and tearing its edge across his chest. The rags split open, and a noxious cloud of green poured out and engulfed her. Barbara coughed and choked and spat, as gnarled tree roots reached from inside the gulf in his body. They wrapped around her arms and squeezed, hot bursts of pain shooting through her body. She screamed and ripped, the Batarang cutting the limbs away and freeing her long enough to sprint out of the cloud, coughing all the way. That wouldn't work. This thing wasn't human.
What would Bruce do?
The words comforted her, in a way. She was the Bat now. She had an example to follow. And Batman would find a way to stop it. She had no idea how to defeat this thing, but surely her remaining ally could.
"Alfred!" she called. "Alfred, are you there?!"
As if fading in from another world, his voice suddenly rang in her ears, growing in volume before returning to its normal strength.
"…iss Barbara, thank goodness! You've been quiet for minutes now, I was getting worried. What's in heaven's name are you doing?!"
"Trying to stay alive!" she insisted, throwing her fists up as she stared down the horrible creature standing on the other side of Bruce's body, maliciously grinning. "I don't know what this thing is, but it's not human!"
The other end went silent. A deep concern in the butler's voice bothered her when he asked, "Miss Barbara… what thing?"
"The… the scarecrow thing!" she cried, bewildered that he even needed to ask. "What the hell else would I be talking about!"
Alfred quickly replied, "Miss Barbara, if there is some kind of scarecrow about, you're going to need to point it out to me. I'm not seeing anything of the sort."
"Right there!" she shouted, pointing so his camera feed could pick it up. "Right next to… to Bruce."
"I do see Bruce." He confirmed. "What's happening to him, Barbara, he still won't make radio contact."
Batgirl frowned, taking a deep breath. Why would he make her say it? "He… he didn't make it, Alfred."
That disconcerting silence returned. Slowly, Alfred tenderly told her "Barbara… do you trust me?"
She was confused, to say the least. "Of course, Alfred. W-why do you need to ask?"
"…Barbara, I see Bruce. But he's on his knees, clearly moving. And I see no scarecrow. I… I don't believe what you're witnessing is real."
The idea was more horrible to her than it should have been. She took a step back, even though Alfred wasn't present to back away from. "Th-that's not right. It can't be. Your camera must be screwed. There's no way."
Alfred spoke again, more forceful in his tone. "Barbara, cameras are very difficult to manipulate in real-time. The human body is much less so."
She shook her head, locking eyes with that horrible scarecrow again. "Alfred, you don't understand, I felt that thing attack me! It hurt me!"
"Hm." Alfred grunting, hard at work at his station. "Your body's readings are highly erratic, like it's under induced stress. There must be… chemicals… Barbara! Does the air look off to you, or is it just my filter?"
"Actually… yeah, it does." She noted, looking around. "It's looked all weird and green since I woke up. I guess I… never noticed?"
"Miss Barbara, it's imperative that you follow my instructions without protest."
The scarecrow took a step forward, giggling to itself. Barbara took a step back of her own, leaning into a combat stance. The butler told her,
"On the very back pouch, there's a small mask that doubles as an air filter. Take it."
She felt around at the back of her waist. As he said, she felt the mask in its pouch and dragged it out. The scarecrow was coming closer. "Got it."
"Put it on, and quickly. It should start working immediately."
She pressed the mask to her face, and as if by its own reflex it suctioned the air out of the small space, attaching itself to her face as it fed its own supply of air in. All the while the scarecrow advanced. Out of its own chest it pulled a scythe, playfully swinging it through the air as it approached. The grin was sickening. "Alfred, that thing's getting closer. What do I do?"
"Nothing." Alfred told her. Her eyebrows raised in shock. "Stand still, and breathe deeply."
"Alfred!" she protested. "That's i—"
"Barbara, do you trust me?" Alfred asked, with all the subtle bite his decades of experience had collected. "I'd thought you had said you did."
Barbara groaned, biting her lip as she weighed her options. She supposed that she needed to try something. It still seemed crazy, but that described the night in general.
She closed her eyes. She could no longer see the scarecrow, but she could hear its footsteps scrunching the dirt beneath its light frame. It came closer and closer, but she calmed herself as best as she could. She breathed deeply, as Alfred had instructed. In, out, in, out. Step, step, step, step. As the scarecrow came within an arm's reach, she heard the scythe raise. Her muscles stiffened, and she felt sweat pooling up on her skin. But she continued to breathe, and wait. She heard the scythe swing, and waited for the impact…
And none came. Her eyes opened. The scarecrow was gone. And not far from her, Bruce was no longer a broken body on the floor. He was alive, on his knees and with a hand clutching his brow. Barbara's face lit up, relief and joy unlike anything she had felt. He was alive. "Alfred, it worked!"
"Excellent!" the butler stated. She could hear the relief in his voice too. It was subtle, but it was nice to hear, now and again, that on some level he was as scared as she was. "Now, we need to get Master Bruce up. There should be a second mask on your person. You'll have to put it on him."
"OK." Batgirl answered, grabbing the mask as she stepped closer. "Easy enough."
Bruce felt his world crumbling. Rage roared in his heart, crying out against him. Failure, it screamed. A failure in every way. His body shook, miniature tremors as he held back the sobbing that threatened to shake him apart. His own thoughts betrayed him as he looked around. Barbara laid at his feet, lifeless. To his left, the bodies of the Graysons, blood leaking from their opened skulls.
God DAMN it Bruce. God DAMN it, it keeps happening! You couldn't save Mom and Dad. You couldn't save Commissioner Lynns. You couldn't save Orson Hill. You couldn't save Arnold. You couldn't save the Graysons. You can't even save one girl…
He looked down at the body. The faintest smile, the satisfaction of a job well done on Barbara's lips.
Not even one girl…
He roared, lashing out at the world in rage. His fist slammed the dirt, fruitlessly. He hunched far over, tears staining the ground beneath him. He looked up, and before him stood a gaunt, disgusting figure. A scarecrow, leaning in to caress his face and mock him.
"You could have saved her…" it told him. "and yet you didn't. Pitiful."
Batman's fist clenched. "SHUT UP!"
Barbara yelped and jumped away, barely avoiding a cracked skull as Bruce lashed out at her, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Bruce, what the hell?!" she yelled, but he didn't hear her. He stormed after her, swinging brutal punches. She only avoided him by what she assumed was divine mercy. His rage slowed him down, and made his moves sloppy.
"Don't bother reasoning with him, Barbara." Alfred told her. "He's consumed by whatever chemical is in the air, making these hallucinations. He's probably not even seeing you right now. It's some inner demon… God knows he has plenty."
"Well, how do I slow him down?!" she asked.
"Two ways. You'll need both in tandem, I imagine. The first is to get that mask on. The second is to press the spot just under his chin to activate my connection to his radio. After that, I think I can talk him down."
Barbara ducked, falling straight to her knees as she barely avoided a swing. Batman capitalized on her immobile stance and brought a knee straight into her chest and bowling her over. Her ribcage felt like jelly as she rolled back onto her hands and knees, scrambling to her feet as he came running for her. "Easier said than done! I need weaknesses, Alfred! ANYTHING!"
"Parry any left-handed blows!" Alfred told her. "They're fast, but between your suit and his sloppiness right now, they won't do much!"
Moments later, Batman lunged forward with a southpaw blow. Barbara remembered what little they actually taught you in those cheap-assed martial arts classes little children took for a month or two, and swung her arm from the inside out, catching the blow and knocked it away. Alfred had lied—that hurt quite badly. But to her benefit, the gauntlet held up enough that it was likely not even a bruise. Feeling cocky, she countered and swung straight for his nose.
Her whole face went white as a sheet when he caught the blow with his other fist. He squeezed, and Barbara felt the bones in her hand start to pop. She fell to her knees, gritting her teeth and trying not to scream as he threatened to break it with another twitch.
"Barbara!" Alfred said urgently. "Grab his face, now!"
"His face?!"
"I'll shock him!"
"Shock him!"
Barbara slapped her hand against Bruce's exposed skin, and the palms of her gloves lit up in a brilliant blue. Batman roared, backing away as he convulsed in pain.
"Now!" Pennyworth commanded. Barbara shouted a battle cry and slapped the mask onto Wayne's face. It attached automatically, and began pumping. "Now press that button!"
Barbara went to smack the switch, but Batman was faster. Her whole face went reeling to the right as a lightning-quick blow rocked her. A second punch to her stomach hunched her over and forward, perfect for an elbow to smash her back and knock her to the floor. She rolled over, groaning pitifully as the Dark Knight kneeled over her. The sadistic grin on his face told her that he was proud of the victory.
Bruce stared down the scarecrow, taking a dark satisfaction in the beating. Even as the poison pumped into him from the mask, he'd managed to bring it down. He could probably remove the thing if he wanted… but there was no point anymore. This was a good way to go. But not before breaking every bone in this creep's body. As he kneeled over the thing, he smiled and told it, "There. One more to the list of the people I let die. If you even count as a person. Any last words?"
The scarecrow smiled, the light fading from its eyes. The spindly fingers of its hand slowly reached for his face, to touch it once before death. Batman didn't move to stop it. No sense in denying it's final wish. It couldn't hurt him much, now.
Its stitched lips smiled, and in a pained girl's voice told him "…God, you're weird sometimes."
The finger clicked the button beneath his chin. And in an instant, a voice he mistook for the wrath of the Lord himself boomed in his ear.
"MASTER BRUCE!" bellowed Alfred, nearly deafening the poor boy as he jumped away and clutched at his ears in agony. "Explain yourself this instant!"
"A-Alfred?!" Bruce cried, his voice cracking and confused. "What are you—"
"Has all your training been for nothing?" the butler spat, stabbing at the core of Bruce's emotional weaknesses. "What did you learn in Jerusalem? Answer me, Bruce."
"I… I learned… 'Nothing is true.'" Bruce parroted.
"Correct." Alfred replied, though not one bit satisfied. "You make your own truth. Your own deceptions. Do you honestly mean to tell me you take what you see as fact so readily?"
Bruce felt confused and, frankly, terrified. He only saw this side of his butler and guardian once in a blue moon. He only wished the gaps were longer. "I don't understand, Alfred, what does that have to do with—"
"Take a deep breath, Bruce." Alfred instructed. He obeyed instantly, and without question. "Take ten, and calm your heart. And then tell me what you see."
Bruce did as he was told, closing his eyes and counting the breaths. It soothed him. He opened his eyes, and saw a sight that overjoyed and nearly killed him inside. The body that he'd just assaulted was no scarecrow. Battered and bruised, but with a gentle smile on her lips, Barbara slowly waved at him from the ground.
He faltered, unsure of what to say. He settled on two words. "You're alive…"
He dropped to his knees, picking the girl up and hugging her as tightly as his arms could grip. She didn't feel the need to protest that, and wrapped her arms around him in return.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He said, barely above a whisper. "I thought you were…"
Barbara shushed him. "I know. It's okay, Bruce. C'mon, let go. We're not done here."
He relented, although not without reluctance, and he and Batgirl stood. Bruce looked around at the strange green fog that he'd finally noticed. "Alfred, what is this stuff? What's it doing?"
"As best as I can tell," Alfred informed him from the cave. "it seems to trigger intense emotional responses in the body, causing them to hallucinate a deep-seated fear… along with some kind of living, evil scarecrow."
Batman wasn't sure how that worked, but he knew one thing: the stuff had to be distributed from somewhere. He looked up, knowing instantly. "The fans."
He turned to Batgirl and grabbed her shoulder, pointing her out the back. "Barbara, get out back and look for the main fan. It should be feeding to all the ones in here. Find whatever's pumping these chemicals in, and get it out."
"Uh…all right." She said. "How?"
"Use this."
He handed her a small pistol grip, with a nozzle instead of a barrel, and instead of a hammer a small blue vial was stuffed into the device. "Spray this on the machine. Use the whole vial, and once you're done, get to a safe distance, and press the button below the vial. Understand?"
"Yeah."
"Then go. I still need to find the Graysons."
She nodded, flashing a coy and unseen smile. "Good luck, Batman."
Batgirl raced towards the nearest exit, leaving Batman to look around frantically for any sign of John, Mary, or Dick. A cry of distress attracted his sight upward.
"Oh no…"
Mary Grayson was at the top of a platform, no less than a hundred feet up.
Dick Grayson was panting, utterly exhausted. But Crane? Crane seemed to have not a care in the world. He seemed almost disinterested as he rattled off horribly inappropriate questions for the situation.
"Patient A, tell me… do you feel more angry, or afraid when you fight? In the lulls, does the lesser of the emotions take precedence over the greater? Perhaps you'd call it an even mix of both?"
Grayson roared, throwing a spinning heel kick that, once again, failed to connect with the ethereal scarecrow. "I'll call it whatever helps me hurt you more!"
He charged, ready to start swinging again, but Crane suddenly seemed disinterested in him. He was watching something else intently. "Oh my. Patient D is behaving quite erratically… fascinating. I wish I could hear her."
Just baffled enough to look, Dick turned around and saw what he was looking at. At the top of the beams stood his mother, facing off with a foe only she could see.
Mary was leaned forward in a furious stance, glaring down at the scarecrow that clutched her boy, dangling him over the edge. Its spine-chilling grin only made her angrier, as her scowl reached new and frightening heights. In a snarl, she demanded.
"Give me my boy."
"Oh, now why would I go and do that?" the scarecrow asked, cocking its head and frowning, confused. "We're getting such valuable data here. Between his screams and your yelling, well, it'd be a crime to stop the scientific process here."
"Shut up!" she howled. "You're just a monster. Now let go of my son!"
The smile that split Crane's face was sheer amusement.
"Oh, you did not just tell me to do that."
He let Dick go, and the boy fell, screaming.
"ROBIN!" screamed Mary, maternal instincts seizing control of her body. There was no hesitation as she leaped from the side of the platform, diving down towards her flailing son. She scooped him up in her arms, clutching him tight as she flipped around. She'd take the brunt of the blow. A mother's duty.
She patted his head, holding him close as she whispered, "It's okay, baby, mommy's got you—"
"MOM!"
She heard her son's voice, but not from her arms. She looked out into the grandstands and locked eyes with her son, staring at her, horrified. For a brief instant, she felt the same horror as she felt an empty space in her arms, where she had thought her son had been.
KRUNCH
She hit the ground alone, and confused.
Detective Victor Sage hit the ground, pain pulsing through every inch of his body.
He struggled back to his feet, struggling to ignore the agony in his muscles, all telling him to stay down. He would never stay down.
There were simply too many WorkerBeez. More than any man could ever hope to overcome. Bullock had been the first to go, swarmed by no less than a dozen of them. He was unconscious at their feet in moments, left alone to be finished when the rest were disposed of. He pumped his shotgun and fired and fired another round. With it, Vic managed to gouge out the circuitry of yet another droid. Just one cog in a vast machine. What could he hope to do against it?
He could fight. He would fight until Gordon told him that they'd won, and he could stop.
He could see that John would be next to go. Cornered against the wall, cradling an open wound that was rapidly proving his undoing. He could only hold a pistol now, and was rapidly firing away with it. A click told him and Victor both that he was fully out of ammo. With nothing left to lose, he threw himself into the throng of metal that had cornered him. That was the end of it.
Victor desperately wished he had time to light a cigarette. That was how all the old pulp fiction heroes went out. Gunning down every schmuck who got too close, a shotgun in their hands and a cigarette burning on their lips. It was a good way to die. He pumped the barrel and took down another one. To his left, practically touching his shoulder was Renee Montoya. The last friend he'd expected to have here. But, he believed that she was the most welcome. She was a lot like him, he'd decided.
Maybe a little more unorthodox than the big-wigs, the puppet masters would have liked. But she knew how to get dangerous when something needed roughing up. But more important… she always did what was right. Not what was good, or lawful. Just right.
That was the reason, he told himself, that he cried her name as a flash of yellow light struck her in the side of the head, knocking her to the ground, motionless.
That left him alone against the machines. There were too many to count. He pumped the barrel and smiled. "Bring it."
He fired a round as one droid charged, eviscerating it. Another shot his way, but he ducked beneath it and fired again, smashing its body and knocking it to the floor. Another kicked at him, but he blocked with his gun and staggered back. He fired again and knocked its head clean off. Two more came his way, one to the left and the other just to his right. He smashed the barrel into the left's face and fired, using the momentum to bash the stock into the other's head. Both hit the ground like wet noodles.
Another stood in his path. He leveled the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The click told him he was out.
He cursed under his breath and glared at the thing. In a low growl he said, "You have one shot. Better make it count."
A concussive burst smashed his belly and flipped him through the air. It counted.
Victor hit the ground hard, his vision blurring and started to darken. He was facing the door they'd entered from. The rain was pouring hard outside, and it was so dark he could hardly see past it. But there was something there, and he could see it very well.
A silhouette embossed against the rain. Two glowing red eyes. Two red eyes in a green face.
A voice in Victor's mind soothed him. Rest, it said. He complied. His eyes closed, and shut out the world.
Dick had forgotten his foe entirely, and sprinted down the steps, shouting for his mother. He had not made it down the third step before it was a futile gesture. But he ran with all the strength his body had, and yet more still. He leaped clear over the side of the ring, crashing into the dirt with unceasing momentum. He and Batman arrived at Mary's side in the same instant, the Grayson boy falling to his knees and reaching to touch her. His hands faltered at the last second, and he pulled away, unable to stand the sight he was looking at.
Batman observed his face, and felt his heart ache. His eyes were cold and dull, threatening tears that would never come. His lips were quivering, frozen in limbo between despair and rage. He could describe every facet of the emotion with excruciating detail. He'd worn it himself, one winter night. The Bat kneeled, putting a hand on Dick's shoulder as the boy bent over, finally building the courage to put a hand on the body's arm. His body silently shook, frozen like that. Batman, after a long silence, opted to move his hand, shutting Mary Grayson's eyes.
Footsteps echoed behind them, which only Batman turned to confront. Crane was hopping down from the wall. Not the scarecrow. His true form. It was pathetic to see such a sight. This was no demon, no monster. None such as could be matched to one from a book, anyway. The true beast was just a pale, thin man in a long, ratty jacket, with a look of disturbed hunger in his eyes.
"Patient has ended own life…" Crane muttered to himself. "Wonder if intentional suicide, or misguided action? Perhaps delusions of safety?"
Batman rose to his feet, facing down the madman with clenched fists. "You're disgusting, 'Doctor'. Someone just died!"
"Yes, a pity…" Crane agreed. "Needed as many test subjects as possible. Lost one patient… a pity."
Batman loaded a tranquilizer dart into his left gauntlet, taking aim and baring his teeth. "Stop talking like they're your damned toys! They're living, thinking humans! Can't say the same for you."
"Hmm… Patient B has overcome dosage. Increasing."
With a deft hand, Crane snatched a gun from his jacket and fired. Batman grunted in shock as a dart hit a bit of exposed undersuit, injecting its toxins. Batman removed the needle, tossing it aside as he strode forward. Already, the image of Crane was flickering. In brief flashes, the scarecrow was standing in his place. No matter. Batman braced himself for another fight. But first…
"My turn."
With a flick of his wrist, Batman shot his own dart into Crane's arm. That would slow him down. Maybe even knock him out in a few minutes. With that out of the way, the Dark Knight charged and threw a punch. Where he thought he'd seen the scarecrow exploded in a puff of hallucinatory smoke, and he looked to his right. Crane was there, a knife in his hand. Batman barely deflected the blow, and jumped back—the scarecrow's scythe nearly bisected him. He'd only avoided it by inches. He threw a heavy kick and bowled Crane over to his back, who fired another dart. Batman caught it in his cape, and dove to the ground. He'd subdue this one quickly.
John Grayson whispered the word "no", over and over again as he viewed the grisly scene. The scarecrow stepped forward, chuckling at his misfortune. "A shame. Really, a shame." It told him. "The hero arrives too late. His beloved and his only child, robbed from him. Or… are they?"
John could hardly believe his eyes as strange wisps of smoke coagulated in front of him. Within the form, he saw faces. Mary, and Dick. They smiled at him, and he felt a strange warmth, even as cold despair washed him. Ethereal hands reached out for him, beckoning him.
"Honey… don't leave us."
"Don't leave us, Dad."
Johns mouth fell agape, and even as his body began to sweat and tremble, he remembered. The gun was still by his side. Slowly, he scraped it up from the ground.
"Don't leave us, John."
His arm shook like he held the world in hand as he lifted the barrel to his temple. He shut his eyes tight, and his mouth drew taut in fear.
"… I won't. I won't leave you."
BANG
Batman and Crane alike turned towards the sound of the gunfire. As did Dick Grayson, who for the first time wrenched his eyes away from his mother. Creeping, terrible realization reached him. His eyes were wide open.
"Dad!"
He scrambled to his feet, sprinting towards the sound. Batman held a hand out, calling out "Dick, wait!"
He groaned in agony as Crane swept behind him, driving the knife into the muscle above Bruce's shoulder. Right where he'd been bitten. A tender area, to say the least. He slammed his elbow into Crane's face, only to hit the scarecrow instead, who disappeared in a poof.
"Hold still!" he shouted.
"No." the scarecrow whispered to his left. Batman swung at him again, only to receive a knife to the back for his trouble. Crane shook his head disappointedly.
"Tsk, tsk. Patient B sluggish, lax under effects of toxin. Too much strain on the body, too much. Remove effects in next batch."
His musings were cut short by a current of powerful electricity, channeled by the taser knuckles that Bruce had slipped on the moment before. He rubbed the pair together, generating sparks between them as he growled, "There won't be a next batch."
He slammed a fist into the scarecrow's stomach—and Crane lurched back in pain. Batman afforded himself a little smile.
Barbara stood in the pouring rain, out behind the circus tent. Before her stood the massive heating-cooling unit that fed every fan in Haly's Circus. And attached to it was a device full to the brim with the scarecrow's chemicals. She'd coated it—and the fan itself, in the strange, clear-blue gel that Bruce had handed to her. She stepped back ten paces—then upped it to twenty, just in case. Staring on at the machine, she pressed the button.
A pillar of fire and smoke engulfed the machine, eradicating it with extreme prejudice. She smiled at her handiwork. Now to get back in. The only issue that remained was the way back in. She'd never bothered to put her cowl back on, and now she was out in the soaking rain, looking forward to a long jog around the side of the tent to get through to the entrance.
But a thought occurred. Dick had told her there were back entrances and exits through the tunnels with the dressing rooms. Sure enough, she could already spy an entrance just to her right. Blessing her luck, she ducked through and into the familiar red tunnels she'd changed in. She started quickly walking back through, passing doors to various dressing rooms. But she stopped. Up ahead, through a door, she heard a sound. Choked, sobbing sounds.
She approached the door cautiously, and peered in. The sight almost caused her heart to stop.
Dick was alone in the room, crouched over the body of his father. A gun was by his side, and his head was surrounded by pools of blood and… something else. He was down on his knees, muttering. She approached, bending down beside him and looking at his face as she drew up. He shook his head, cheeks wet as he repeated "Why? Why, why, why?"
Barbara hesitated, unsure if he was speaking to her. "…It's a chemical in the air, that Crane's using. It does things to your head… makes you… not yourself."
Dick latched on to that name. "Crane. Crane…"
His face soured, a black rage slowly seeping through as he reached down, prying the gun from his father's hand. Barbara reached to stop him, but found herself frozen by the glare he gave her when she tried. Pure, unbridled hatred.
Dick stood, and silently stepped out of the room, gun in hand.
Batman flipped the scarecrow straight over him, dropping the man on his head. Crane was sluggish now, his nimble ferocity doing him no good with the tranquilizer worked through his system. Batman was almost there, he could feel it. Just one more good strike and—
In a flurry of motion, Crane jammed his knife straight into Batman's shoulder wound and dug it in, swirling the blade around. Bruce yowled and screamed in complete agony, all his thoughts and functions shutting down to react to the hurting. He fell flat on his stomach, gritting his teeth and fidgeting as Crane moved away, using his foot to kick in the little knife as far as it would go. Bruce couldn't take it; he screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Finally." The scarecrow said, exasperated. "Now, to find remaining test subjects."
Too late. The subjects had found him. The sound of another gunshot rang, and Crane's left knee was blown out. The "doctor" lost all pretense of his disgusting professionalism, and screamed in terror, shock, and pain. But he was hardly through with the agony. Another shot blasted his left shin, leaving him on the ground and crying like a child, begging for mercy. He would receive none. Dick Grayson was out for blood.
The acrobat was on him in an instant, howling in a dread fury as he smacked the twig of a man across the face with his pistol butt. It drew blood. He threw a punch and smashed in his nose. He dragged him by the shirt collar up to the pillar, propping him up and throwing a spinning back kick right into his collar. It snapped. Crane screamed, begging "Stop! Stop! For the love of God, sto-ha-hop!"
"STOP?!" Dick screamed, stomping on the blown-out knee and eliciting another cry of pain.
Barbara rushed into the room, and saw the brutal scene playing out before her. She saw Mary, and instantly understood Dick's rage.
"You of all people, want MERCY?!"
Dick took aim with the gun again, and blasted him in the shoulder. Crane's blubbering reached a new octave.
"You diseased bastard, you don't even understand what you've done, do you?!"
"Pl-pl-please!" Crane begged, absolute fear in his eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Dick screamed to the heavens, backhanding the murderer across his face and jamming the barrel of the gun up underneath his chin. "No. You're. NOT! You're a sick freak, who needs to be put DOWN like one!"
Crane was already unconscious.
A hand grabbed Dick's forearm, jerking it away. With anger written on every inch of his expression, Grayson stared down Batman, who had kneeled beside him to pull away the gun.
"Let go!" he warned. Batman narrowed his eyes.
"No."
"I said let go!" he tugged at the gun, but the stronger man wouldn't release his grip. "He's a monster, he deserves this!"
"Yes." Batman agreed. "He does."
"Then let go!" he pleaded, sadness welling up within his anger. "Please, Batman! He…" he shook his head to dispel the tears. "God, he killed them! He killed them… please just give me this!"
Batman's face softened, but he would not concede. "I know what you're feeling, Dick. But it's not worth this."
"How?" Grayson asked bitterly. "How could you possibly know what I'm feeling right now?"
He leaned forward, glaring at the Bat. "What gives you the right?!"
Batman reached up and pulled away his cowl. Dick was staring at the eyes of Bruce Wayne, the heir's face an unreadable mess of pain and anguish. In an instant, he understood the meaning of Barbara's words. The only heir.
"Because I've been where you are now." Bruce said, his voice weaker, cracking. "Where everything's just consumed by that one thought. You want to break him, hurt him, kill him in ways a thousand times worse than what he'd done. Just to make him understand what he did to you. But it doesn't change anything, Dick. It doesn't take away the pain. They're still gone, and you're left with the scars. There's just one more dead man in the pile. And… and you're still alone."
Dick stammered. His lips shivered as he shook his head, unsure of what to say or do.
He dropped the gun. His body shook as he began to weep, wrapping his arms around Bruce, crying loudly and muffling himself against his shoulder. Bruce returned the embrace, tears streaming down his grimy face in silence. They sat like that for several moments. With the fans off, only the faint pattering of the rain accompanied the sound.
Barbara watched on, pained in her inability to help. But she believed it was for the best she didn't. She had already thought the two kindred spirits before. Now… she wondered if maybe it was fate that Dick had met Bruce today. She approached them, carefully acquiring their attention with hands on their shoulders.
"Bruce…" she whispered. "We need to change."
In the distance, police sirens were closing in on Haly's Circus.
The blows rained down like artillery fire on Commissioner Gordon. Slade was precise, powerful. There was nothing he could do to stop them. He'd stopped resisting long ago. The final punch struck him hard, cutting open his forehead. Slade leaned in close.
"Don't pass out on me just yet, Jim. We're not finished."
Jim coughed, the blood catching in his throat as he tried to spit it up. He glared at the man in the mask and asked, "Why don't… don't you just finish me?"
The man just laughed at that. "That's no way to deliver a message. No, before I finish you, I want you to understand very clearly: I am stronger, faster, smarter than you, or anyone you can bring to bear."
He leaned in close, nearly touching Jim's face with his mask.
"I will bring a shadow over this city. And there is nothing. You can do. To stop it."
Jim tried to speak, but the effort was too much. His mouth opened, before his head rolled to his side, unconscious. Slade scoffed, and rose to his feet and drawing a pistol from a holster.
"Finally had enough, Commissioner? Well, you made it fun at least."
He pointed the gun down at his head, and clicked the safety off. "Goodnight, Jim."
Wilson's hand was stayed by a motion in the corner of his eye. He looked to the entrance of the alley as the rain fell around them. A cloaked figure was watching him, with eyes solid red. It spoke in a clear, smooth tone.
"I would advise against hurting him any further. Your quarrel is with me now, Slade."
"My reputation precedes me." Wilson commented, turning away from Jim just enough to point the gun at the stranger. "Though I can't really say we're in mutual situations. I would leave now."
"I will not." The stranger said. He stepped forward, his eyes peering out from beneath a blue hood, attached to the cloak wrapped around his body. His face was all but pitch darkness under it, but what few fragments retained their color were—unless Slade was going crazy—green.
"Well that's certainly more than a skin condition." He noted, curious. "But my generosity has reached it's limit."
He fired the pistol, and the round smacked square into the man's lips. It bounced away harmlessly. The eyes, unblinking, focused on Slade. He enunciated the next phrase with all the meaning it could be given.
"This is your last warning. The Commissioner, and his men, are under my protection."
The stranger's arm reached from inside of his cloak, tossing a spherical object Slade's way. It was the sparking, detached head of one of his droids. Slade glanced at it, and back at him. "What do you call yourself, creature?"
"Just a man." The figure responded. "A man who hunts men like yourself."
"Hmph."
Slade tossed the pistol to the ground, reaching to his back. His hands retrieved a pair of swords, one for each hand. He leaned into a combat stance as he stared down the intruder on his time with the Commissioner, and told him, "Congratulations, your hunt has led you to me. But that wasn't a very wise idea."
Slade charged, swinging both of his blades at the mysterious man's right side. His blue cloak shifted, and an arm rose to parry. Both blades impacted him, but stopped at the skin. It was like trying to cut a solid block of steel. The free hand of the stranger reached out and grabbed Slade by the throat, instantly cutting off his windpipe and lifting him into the air. Wilson began to choke, vainly attempting to pry away the fingers at his neck. They were stronger than any man's, and held without effort. The arm swung around, and slammed Slade into the alley's wall. He released, and Slade instantly took the opportunity to plunge both blades through the cloak and into his chest. The blades shattered from the strain. The stranger's leg lifted up and stretched straight out, kicking Slade into the wall and pinning him there. The criminal struggled, but couldn't budge the leg. It was as if an entire battleship was pressing him against the wall.
Feeling his pelvis a pound of pressure away from being crushed, Slade growled, "What are you?"
Not budging his leg, the stranger raised his hands to his hood, and pulled it back. His face was like a man's, but his head was bald, and strangely angular at the back, and he had no ears to speak of. His hairless brows furrowed, and with purpose in his voice he told the man:
"What I have already told you. A man, who will defend his home from evil."
He let his leg down, and brought his arm up, punching the wall beside Slade. A hole no less than six feet in diameter was blown in. He was only inches from the mask.
"I am the Manhunter. And none of your kind are safe."
He took a step back, and pointed out of the alley. "Go, Slade. And do not stop until you have left the city. I will know if you have not."
For a moment, Wilson hesitated. He stopped to stare at the strange creature for a moment. Then, he turned and walked away. No more words were shared.
The Manhunter looked back at Jim, frowning as he saw his physical state. He approached, lifting the Commissioner up in his arms.
"You need to get out of the rain, James."
He turned and, with his human cargo, stepped through the wall.