AN: Let's play Batman, shall we? See if you can puzzle it out before he does. Anyone that gets it right…I dunno, actually.
1)I meant it when I said they were random victims. I have no idea who's next.
2)They will be mostly-if not all-women.
3)The toxin can either be inhaled (from a short distance only) or absorbed through the skin.
4)It is in something that most of us have under the bathroom sink.
5)It is in something highly flammable, although it not used for setting fires. Rather, it is used for making us pretty.
Johanna Crane-I keep expecting him to open the door and say something about being caught in traffic and give me a box of chocolates as an apology. I always used to hate it when he'd try to bribe me, but...oh, God...
Christineoftheopera-We're getting there. I'm still debating, really, whether I should try to preserve his head in a jar or dismember him and ship him to Gordon in a box.
As much as he hated to admit it, she hadn't lied to him. The tea was clean. Tasted like dishwater-when tests came up blank, he'd risked a cup-but it was harmless.
Really, though, she wasn't the tea-poisoning kind. She had…he hated to call them morals, seeing as she would shoot you in the face, but…
Never mind. The tea was clean, all three boxes. (He'd borrowed the other two from evidence.)
He crouched on a rooftop, hoping to blend in with the gargoyles, and watched the steady stream of traffic, the lights blurry in the drizzle. She was here, in this city. She had to be.
There was a gunshot and he swooped downwards. There! In that alley. God, why did people in this city insist on going in alleys…
The victim was a man-a kid, really, a twitchy kid that was probably on something. Now he was lying on the ground, pleading with his attacker.
"I didn't know it was you, I'm sorry!"
He looked at the gunman.
Or, rather, gunwoman.
"Hullo, Batman. Sorry about this, I haven't got your number." She lowered the gun. "You look terrible. I told you not to scowl so much."
"Richardson."
"Please…"
"Shut up, bitch!" The gun suddenly came up, past the guy on the ground and towards Batman instead. "You. You are responsible for this."
"He knew the risks."
"That idiot you saved died three hours later!" Her voice echoed in the alley. "Three. Hours. You didn't save him, you brought him out to die."
"I'm sorry."
"Not yet."
She fired. But instead of a bullet, a capsule came flying out of the barrel and landed on the ground at his feet, smoking a little.
By the time he got his gas mask on and carried the incapacitated druggie to safety, she was gone.
"Feeling guilty, Bats?" Crane's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "You should be. Suffocation is not the nicest way to go."
"I didn't mean…"
"Oh, don't tell lies." He can see him now, a thin shadow with no face. "You meant it. You may be regretting it now, but at the time…very Norman Bates."
He's tied to a chair with human intestines, he realizes. They squish when he tries to break free, but his efforts only make them draw tighter.
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not." The shadow drags itself into the light. Crane is barely recognizable now-he seems to be missing chunks of flesh and his head shouldn't be tilted that far sideways. "You will be."
"Crane…"
Hot, burned fingers ease under the cowl and draw it upwards. There's nothing he can do and it comes off without a fuss, melting in Crane's grasp.
"Bruce Wayne." There's no trace of surprise in the voice, only smugness. "I wonder what it'll be like, looking for a new butler. Do they even train butlers nowadays, or is yours a relic?"
The hot fingers flutter over his face before suddenly digging into his eye sockets.
"Now you really are blind as a bat…"
He woke in his own bed, gasping and feeling frantically for his eyes to make sure they were still there. What a nightmare…what time was it, anyway?
He made his way downstairs to look for Alfred.
"Morning, Master Wayne."
"Alfred."
"Feeling better, sir?"
"Huh?"
"You came in rather the worse for wear last night. Don't you remember?"
There must have been something in that fog…a new compound…
"Yes." he lied. "Yes, I remember. I'm feeling better."
"Now that that's settled, sir, you may wish to take a look at this." A paper slid across the table. The headline 'TEN WOMEN RUSHED TO THE HOSPITAL FROM SCARECROW TOXIN, SEVEN DEAD' glared up at him.
He paged through until he found the article-complete with accompanying pictures. Journalists had no shame…
"A salon." he said. "Four stylists, five customers and the secretary. Two of them had violent reactions and attacked the others."
"I see."
"You're not quite sorry enough, Bats…"
He shook his head to dispel Crane's voice and earned a soft chuckle in return.
"You know, I'd worry about dear Jim, I really would."
THE END