Fear Itself
January 8, 1942
When Jonathan Crane awoke to find his cell door open, the first thing he did was secure the canisters hidden below his cot. The smaller one was cool to the touch, a light sloshing noise promising that its contents remained. The second one gave no such indications, but Crane didn't have time to check. Before he left his cell, he slipped off his pillow case, ripping two holes into it, and stuffing it partially in his waistband.
It would be inaccurate to say that every cell was open, though not by much. The distant echo of screams, shouts and laughter told Crane all he needed to know about what was happening in Arkham. Most of the inmates would head to the front entrance. The smart ones would go through service exits, those portals tucked away in the kitchen and the guard rooms. Crane, however, took a different route.
He ignored the violence around him, as inmates took their revenge on the staff and one another, while the guards tried desperately to quell the uprising. Life in the asylum was regimented, every minute of the day measured out to exacting standards. Crane had made sure to pay close attention to the layout of the institution, to where the staff, namely the psychologists resided when they were not working with the inmates. It helped that he worked here for a spell.
The gate that led to the offices was jammed open, propped by the collapsed body of a guard that hadn't quite made it. Crane stepped over him, looking at the names on each door till he found the one he wanted. Burkhardt. He put the pillow over his head. It worked better when they couldn't see your face. He had no doubt that the door was locked, but all it took was smashing out the window with the larger canister to gain access. A startled gasp confirmed that Burkhardt was within.
"Stay back! I..I have a gun."
It could be true. Or a bluff. It didn't matter. Crane unscrewed the cap of the smaller canister and threw it into the room. A thin, wispy trail of purple and green smoke flitted out of it. Burkhardt wheezed. Arkham was an asylum, but it functioned as any prison did, with its own black market, one that Crane could exploit. The concoction wasn't as strong as the one he could produce on the outside, but it would do the job.
"Oh god...what did you do? Please, just leave me," whimpered Burkhardt.
The man had the gall to try and cure Jonathan Crane. To poke around in his mind. To look for something wrong with him, excise it. It was an insult too far, after being sentenced to this place for the mere crime of enacting revenge on short-sighted fools at the university. It should be Crane that was running Arkham. Not worms like Burkhardt.
Worms. That last thought made Crane chuckle. He opened the second canister and threw it in as well.
Crane noticed Burkhardt's fear on their second session together. An involuntary flinch away from a fly that had entered the room. Flys were an annoyance to many, but Crane had seen the way that the doctor had to maintain awareness about their unexpected visitor. A pattern that repeated with the spider. And another fly. When Crane smuggled a cockroach into one of their meetings Burkhardt had leapt up, swearing and ended the meeting early. Entomophobia. Fear of insects. Which was why Crane had packed every bug he could find into that canister. The one that now spilled its tenants into Burkhardt's office.
So sweet were the screams, so ripe with terror, that Crane did not hear the person approach from behind. He was too busy peering through the broken glass, a gleeful spectator as Burkhardt writhed and clawed at his own skin, consumed by bugs, real and imagined. Whatever they pressed to Crane's mouth put him out in but a moment.
Lights. Bright, directed. Crane was in a metal chair. Not handcuffed. Not the police.
"He's awake." More than one voice conferring.
A shadow came into the light, till it coalesced into a man in a yellow mask, a black claw on his chest.
"Mr. Crane. A pleasure to meet you."
"You have a curious way of showing that," said Crane.
The man shrugged. "Forgive the nature of our introduction. It required a great deal of set-up."
"You have my gratitude for the...shortening of my sentence, though you'll need to forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced it was altruistic."
There were too many for Crane to fight, not that he was that good at it. His left hand might have a trace of the toxin left on it, if only he could make contact with someone's skin.
"No apology necessary. Your instinct is correct. We would use your services."
Crane nodded at him to continue.
"I represent an organization with certain enemies. Enemies that happen to be mutually opposed to our existence. And yours."
The Batman.
"We have tried to destroy them in a number of ways, all unsuccessful. Your methods piqued my interest."
Flattery or genuine praise, it didn't matter. Crane was intrigued.
"What would you need?"
"What you can provide. Fear. Though somewhat different from your previous methods."
"How so?"
"Why bring down one when you can take them all at once? We want a slow poisoning. A carefully cultivated unraveling of our enemies."
Different yes. A challenge. Crane's mind already raced with the possibilities. More subtle variants, new delivery methods, more testing. This could be what he needed to expand his craft.
"I presume that you would fund these endeavors?" said Crane.
"Certainly."
"This kind of task, it requires a deft touch. I can manage that, but one mistake, one miscalculated dose could tip off your foes to the scheme. Do you have plans in place to avoid that?"
The man in yellow nodded. "We have an expert at hand, one that could provide you with all the necessary details."
Another man came into Crane's view, an individual with a bald head, a thick beard and round, tinted glasses. The man in yellow noted Crane's reaction.
"I take it you already know each other?" said the man in yellow.
"Indeed," said Crane.
"We are acquainted" said Hugo Strange.
January 6, 1942
It would not have required much in the way of exaggeration to say that Bruce returned the Batcave on hands and knees. His cape was pocked with holes and slashes, his costume cut and torn. His body ached from the exertion that the past two days had demanded of him, his head throbbing from lack of sleep.
The breakout at Arkham was an unfolding disaster. There had been no time to discern the genesis of it, only the frantic attempt to halt the onrushing wave before it broke on Gotham. Many of the ordinary inmates were back in custody, unable or unwilling to leave, caught by the response of the GCPD, which blocked the gates and patrolled the roads toward the city proper. A handful of the more colorful individuals had been captured, unable to lay low like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum or Signalman. That still left the Joker, Harvey Dent, Edward Nygma, Professor Achilles Milo, Jonathan Crane, Julian Day and more on the loose. This was on top of a smoldering conflict between the Penguin and the remnants of the Falcone and Maroni crime syndicates, the continued interference of the Yellow Claw's organization, reports of a man-eating crocodile in the sewers and a robbery spree by Catwoman.
Bruce bandaged the cuts that had begun to bleed again, entered his logs, then slouched into the elevator to the manor. He avoided Dick's room, having sent the boy away after the first day. He understood how much this frustrated Dick, but it was a matter of safety. Bruce understood his own limits. The boy hadn't quite reached that level of self-awareness.
He was intent on simply collapsing on his bed as soon as he saw it. The envelope caught his eye, perched perfectly as it was on his dresser. Alfred's doing no doubt. He recognized the handwriting as Julie Madison's. Something stung in his mind. A missed date.
Bruce read the letter. He let it slip through his fingers to the floor when it was done. Julie had been remarkably kind, given her circumstances. Still, too many missed engagements. Too little care. Too many excuses. As he fell on his mattress, Bruce wished that it hurt more. But, he was too tired for that. Instead, he settled for that familiar, dull ache, the one that sat in his chest.
It was better. Nothing good could come for her from him. There was no future, no real future for them. It was a pruning of another branch, another distraction from the mission. That's what Bruce tried to repeat as he circled the brief release of sleep.
Batman would endure even when Bruce Wayne could not.
January 14, 1942
Jay Garrick was in the midst of one activity that he had not experienced since the onset of his powers: a chase. Sure, there were times he pursued cars and trains and airplanes, but there was no tension in the matter of whether or not he would catch up the vehicle. This time was different.
It started with a late night alarm at Central City's government labs, where the physics department reported a break-in. The Flash had expected to find a standard robbery or at worst, a costumed villain. This time he was confronted with a man wearing a copy of his own outfit down to the winged helmet. The only distinction was its muted colors and the mark that covered his quarry's face.
The thief took off as soon as he spotted the Flash, which lead to their chase through Central, back to Keystone and beyond. It reminded Jay of his run-in with Johnny Quick and Quicksilver. The difference was that those two hovered comfortably around or below the Flash's speed. This criminal was making Jay work for it.
They skirted through traffic, around pedestrians, through back alleys and crowded boulevards. The thief tried to duck him by zipping in and out of buildings, leaving those inside dazed at the sudden gust of wind. Jay's powers could be dramatic in their effect on the world, but it required a conscious effort. This man appeared to be doing that by default. He ran around oncoming trains, darted through the night shift at factories, sprinted up walls. The Flash stayed on the man's trail, though he couldn't close the gap between them. Whoever it was, they had practiced their powers. They were pulling off moves that had taken trial and error for Jay to learn, like running up vertical surfaces.
"I can tell you're getting tired of this," shouted Jay. "May as well pack it in."
The only acknowledgement was a glance back at him. Their trajectory turned back to Central City, over the Twin Cities bridge. The man hit the lobby of an office building, disappearing into a stairwell. The Flash followed him up, making sure that he hadn't peeled off into any of the adjoining floors. He rediscovered the thief on the roof, still at last, beside a water tower.
"Out of steam pal?" said the Flash. "Or just come to your senses?"
"You can swagger about all you want. I know desperation when I see it," said the thief.
The Flash tensed. He worked all then angles. Which way would the man run? Over the roof… jumping from one to the other? Try to force his way back through the stairwell.
"You've had it too easy for too long Flash. You're in need of a proper Rival."
The thief vibrated his hand against the leg of the water tower. His other palm opened, letting dozens of rivets clatter to the rooftop. The tower's supports groaned as they failed and it tipped toward the edge.
The Flash rushed forward, the man whizzing out of his way as the tower began its descent. He was so caught up in the falling water tower that he failed to avoid a shoulder tackle from the man, which knocked him over the rooftop, plummeting as well. For a man with the perception he possessed, the fall could last ages, but it did him little good. In a vacuum, Jay and the water tower would plummet to the ground at the same speed, but here on Earth, it was going to outpace him. His opponent had been clever, shoving him far enough out into the open air that he couldn't just swivel his legs to the wall and start running.
Below, the streets weren't packed, but there were enough people walking and driving that a water tower landing on them would ruin their evenings. Jay pondered his predicament on the way down, arriving on a solution that would be tight even for him. He pinwheeled his arms into a gust of air, which blasted him past the falling tower, toward the ground. As it rushed to greet him, he rolled his body till his feet pointed straight down at the streets, holding both arms above his head, hands on top of one another, biceps squeezing his ears. Tensing his core, the Flash rotated his body faster and faster, till he was spinning like a top, the flow of air now pushing away from the ground. By the time he had slowed enough to touch down, the water tower was only around thirty feet away.
Jay could try the tornado trick again, but he wasn't confident that he could generate enough lift to counteract the tower's velocity in the remaining distance. Instead, he scooped up everyone nearby, ferrying them outside of the danger zone. By the time the water tower exploded on the street, caving in the hood of a car and unleashing a torrent of water, there was a confused crowd on either side of the block.
The Flash wiped his brow. A search of the roof and the nearby buildings confirmed that his foe was long gone. As Jay ran back to clean up the mess, then onward to fill up on some needed food, a dire thought crossed his mind.
He might no longer be the fastest man alive.
The Rival reached his hideout just as the formula wore off. He stumbled to the bed, bracing himself for the wave of jitters that accompanied each crash. That and the nausea that arrived afterwards. Still, tonight had been a success. He had outrun the Flash.
When the withdrawal passed, the Rival dumped his loot out on the workshop table. A collection of miscellaneous bits and bobs of electronics and advanced scientific instruments stolen from Central City. Useless to a lay person. Immeasurably valuable to Edward Clariss. He set to work stitching them into the machinery that already sat within the room. It was painstaking work, the kind that made him wish again for his speed.
The formula worked. Consistently. Yet, it had a strict time limit. As well as the unpleasant side effects. Edward needed more. He needed permanence.
Jay Garrick used his powers in the manner a child would conceive of them. Edward saw beyond the horizon of what they could be. What could be achieved with that speed, that pace of perception. He owed it himself, no the world, to tap into that potential. If the Flash wouldn't, couldn't do it, he would.
January 20, 1942
Alan Scott sat outside the recording studio, listening to Vicky Vale report the latest news. The war meant an overhaul of the GBC. No more television broadcasts, strict guidelines for how they could discuss events and individuals and frequent commercials promoting war bonds and service. America was in for a fight and it meant everyone had to pitch in.
It was early in their involvement, but the reports didn't sound promising even with the restrictions. The Japanese were pouring into the Philippines, Burma, Borneo and Malaya. They had already taken Hong Kong. The Germans were still on their advance into the Soviet Union and they were backing up their Italian allies in North Africa. Then there were the U-boats that were hunting American ships in the Atlantic. They had already sunken a number of merchant vessels.
Alan took some consolation that the U-boats had to be more cautious after he had plucked one of them from the ocean off the coast of New York City. The crew had been so stunned by the turn of events that they surrendered immediately upon being set down on American soil. The papers and radio programs had a field day with it, a valiant success for President Roosevelt's new All-Star Squadron initiative.
The reality was less encouraging. Green Lantern could stop any U-boat he found, but it was finding them that was the problem. The Atlantic was a lot of water to cover. A lot of coastline. He couldn't be everywhere. Nor could Wonder Woman or Superman or any of the heroes that could bring down a submarine on their own. It wasn't as big a list as the public would've wanted.
The meeting in the Perisphere was something of a wake up call for Alan. Being on the JSA had a way of humbling a person. He was used to putting himself alongside Doctor Fate and Superman, Wonder Woman and the Spectre. The All-Star Squadron had been a reminder that like it or not, Green Lantern was one of the big guns. One of the biggest guns. It was an odd revelation, to have that level of power thrust upon you, to know that even in a room full of exceptional people, you were operating on the highest level. It meant responsibility, a responsibility that Alan didn't fully know what to do with.
For the moment, his responsibility was with the GBC. To guide it through this new phase of its existence and make sure it remained relevant. Within the all for one ethos of the war effort, there remained the competition between the news organizations.
It was after the broadcast, as Alan prepared to go home, that he spied Dave Clark coming out of Leonard Wheeler's office.
"What's the matter Dave, they finally running you out of town?" said Alan.
Dave gave him a mock grimace. "And here I thought I could sneak through without seeing that ugly mug."
He met Alan with a firm handshake. Dave was a reporter in Manhattan. His program tended to focus on the folks that were overlooked by society, his breakout report on a developer that was building shoddy apartment blocks, one of which had collapsed after years of neglect.
"I'd bet you didn't make the trip just to chat with Leonard."
Dave shook his head. "I'm trying to get overseas. CBS and NBC already turned me down. I've burned a few of their executives before."
"That eager?"
"It's where the action is. I don't want to spend the war sitting around."
Dave looked around at the emptying offices. "Say Alan, why don't we get a drink."
They ended up in a nearby bar, frequented by newsmen and their secretaries. Dave nursed a mug while finishing up a story about the latest time a city bureaucrat had tried to have his career killed. And possibly him. Inevitably though, conversation drifted back to the war.
"At the risk of offense.." said Dave.
"When has that stopped you?"
"Noted. But, really Alan, I thought you might be more enthusiastic about front line reporting. I know that you're more on the management side, but if there's a time for action, it's now."
Alan leaned on the counter. "I've thought of it. But, I think that I'm needed here, at the GBC for now. If the time comes that I'm called to go over, I'll do so."
Dave polished off his beer and ordered another.
"I never asked what the outcome was," said Alan.
"Said he'd think about it."
Alan raised an eyebrow. Dave sighed. "Better than the flat rejections from the others. If it comes down to it, I'll go on my own. I just want to know that what I find over there is actually reaching people."
"How about this Dave," said Alan, propping his head up with an elbow. "I'll pull some strings. Get Leonard or one of the others to approve. They owe me a favor or two."
"I see my guilt trip worked."
"Ah come on now. I just can't stand to see an esteemed journalist like yourself wallow in such misery."
They spent another hour telling stories and drinking, before they split the tab and left. Alan walked unevenly in the direction of his apartment, debating about whether or not to call Derby for a pickup. Dave had introduced new doubts. Green Lantern might not be able to fight in Europe, but could Alan Scott make a difference on his own. Was it worth it to give up the ring for that?
His musings were brought to a close by a shrill shriek ahead of him. There was a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk, each of them staring up, towards the rooftops.
"She's going to fall," said a woman.
"Did anyone call the fire department?" said a man with a cane.
Another answered in the affirmative. Alan joined them to see what they were looking at. It was a distant sight, far enough that it was vague, but there was a woman dangling off of the sign far above them.
"She's slipping," said another woman. This elicited a new round of shouts from those assembled. Alan ran off, around the corner, where he found a lonely enough street to shed his civilian clothes for the costume.
It was a trivial matter to fly up to the woman. Up close, she was in a costume of sorts, a blue top with an exaggerated white tutu and orange and black leggings. She wore sharply angled blue glasses and a pointed orange cap with blue dots on it.
"Help," she said, upon noticing Green Lantern's presence.
Without another moment, he created a platform that lifted her to the rooftop, where she gingerly stepped off of it.
"Oh thank you. I was nearly done for," she said.
Green Lantern landed next to her. Alan racked his brain. Had he seen this woman before? At the All-Star Squadron meeting? Not every masked crimefighter attended and he had not categorized every single one of those that did.
"Have we met?" said Green Lantern.
"I think I'd remember meeting such a handsome specimen as yourself. This is the first time."
She extended a slender palm to him. "Name's Harlequin."
He took it. "Green Lantern."
"Well that's established." She glanced around the rooftop, as if looking for something or someone. Harlequin bent down by the stair entrance and picked up an unwieldy wooden instrument, something with strings, like a guitar, but not quite. "Thought I lost this."
"Miss, how did you end up here?"
"Long story, but one you might be interested in."
Harlequin told Green Lantern about a stakeout, involving a new gang, headed up by displaced criminals from Gotham. There was an exchange of goods here, one that she intended to bust. The tables had been turned, which resulted in her predicament.
"There's one bit of good news."
"What's that?"
"I overhead where they're headed. Fancy a team up?"
The gang's hideout was a warehouse in the Bronx. Green Lantern took them down far enough away that they wouldn't see the glow on the urging of Harlequin.
"Do you want to lead the charge?" said Harlequin. She had pressed herself very close to Alan on the flight, enough so that he felt her breath on his neck.
"Might as well."
"Be careful with that ring of yours. I've heard they're smuggling explosives. Wouldn't want to set them off with all that heat you're carrying."
Green Lantern agreed and flew toward the warehouse. He let the fire wrap around him, permitting him to pass through the wall. It was dark within, the building a maze of wooden crates, piled nearly to the ceiling. Only a few of the overhead lights were on, with many flickering weakly.
The sound of hushed conversation brought him deeper. Gathered around a crate was a trio of men, one of them working at the box with a crowbar.
"Now this.. this is the good stuff."
"Get on with it you egg," said another man.
Alan dimmed the flame to see what was in the box. He could see bundles of dynamite, tied together into thick packages.
"That's more like it," said the other man.
"That's enough fellas," said Green Lantern, landing behind them, ring pointed their way.
"Rats! Get him" shouted the first guy. The men fumbled for guns.
Green Lantern clapped a wave of green energy on them to bind them up. The construct passed through them, meeting on the other side empty. Before Alan could react, something big and heavy clubbed him over the head. He fell to the ground, barely catching himself with one hand. Another strike hit his back. He scrambled forward, as another swing met only air.
Behind him was Harlequin, wielding the wooden instrument like a club.
"Whoops. That was supposed to drop you in one," she said.
"Why?"
Harlequin didn't answer, instead rushing him with another swing of the instrument. Green Lantern threw up a wall of flame, which halted her, but not the wooden device. It tagged him on the shoulder, forcing a cry of pain and enough distraction that the wall fell.
She retreated up a pile of boxes before Green Lantern could reform his defense, leaping from crate to crate with acrobatic ease.
"I suppose a part of me is grateful it wasn't too easy. More fun this way darling."
Green Lantern hovered off the ground. Her blue spectacles glinted and Harlequin was split into four versions, each of which danced away in a different direction.
"Choices, choices Green Lantern. Do make an effort."
A lash of green flame clipped the Harlequin on his right, reverting it to nothingness. The other three were further apart, cloaked in the shadows of the warehouse. He flew slowly, scanning for each of them. There was enough of a chance that she wasn't lying about the contents of the boxes that he couldn't afford to fully cut loose.
With a cry, Harlequin leapt from an elevated stack towards him, club raised overhead. Alan responded with an uppercut that couldn't connect, while the instrument smashed into his side. He fell into a pile of boxes, tumbling down the columns till he rolled onto the floor, his ribs hurting and his breath gone.
Harlequin landed beside him with a roll. She put her foot on his hand, with enough force that his fingers cried out in pain.
"I've been dying to meet you handsome. Staged that same stunt on the roof four times already. What's a girl got to do to meet a hero in this town?"
Green Lantern waited for an opportunity. The pain she was inflicting was enough that any construct would be dubious in its formation.
"Consider this a formal introduction," said Harlequin, twisting her heel on his knuckles. She leaned down and grabbed Green Lantern by the jaw.
"It's come to my attention that a man like you is in dire need of a woman like me. But, honestly, darling, you're going to need to up your game if this was all you could manage."
A flicker of a construct began, which prompted a smack of her instrument.
"Ah, ah ah," said Harlequin, wagging her finger. "If you want to catch me, I'll need to see some real effort."
To Green Lantern's surprise, she planted a kiss on his lips, before flipping away, back into the shadows, laughing all the while. He sat up, nursing his throbbing hand. At least one finger was broken.
When he checked the crates by the illusions, Green Lantern found that they had indeed contained dynamite. Even stranger was that there was a trio of gangsters tied up in the back of the warehouse, a rope looped around another box of the stuff. A note signed by Harlequin was attached with more of her mocking comments.
Alan massaged his jaw. Who the hell was this lady?