Notes: This is a bonus chapter! I got bored and inspired and carried away and wrote an extra chapter from a very different POV that was outside my original outline. I've stuck it between chapters 3 and 4 since this is roughly where it takes place chronologically and I feel it works out best pacing-wise if you read here as part of the main story, but I realise it feels a little random if you consider it an extra instead, so let me know if you think it'd make more sense stuck on the end like a bonus feature or epilogue or something. This is in addition to my usual weekly post and the planned 9 chapters. I make no promises when, if ever, I'll do another bonus story like this, but I wanted to post it anyway. It's not needed to follow the rest of the plot, but It might give some better insight into Scarecrow's motivations, since it's essentially one long motive rant by him, and an early introduction to his lovely accomplice. I was feeling he was underexplored in a story where he was meant to be the main villain anyway, so I wanted to try to fix that. Hope you all enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think in the comments!

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

Jaundiced yellow light leaked through the stained glass window, shining upon the confession booth. The church was empty, just after mass, and silence hung like motes of dust in the air between each word. Empty, anyway, aside from the sinner and the priest.

Father Harry Redding sat on one side of the privacy curtain. Dark skinned and darker haired, dressed in pale white robes, as he leant back in his chair to listen to this latest confession whilst bored out of his mind. This is a regular part of his duties, one he performed day in and day out, and he found that every confession eventually blurred into every other one after a while.

But he was at least professional enough to put real-sounding sympathy into his voice as he comforted his parishioner. "Speak, child, and be at ease. Tell me what you have done, and receive the forgiveness of the Lord."

The voice that came from the other end of the curtain was difficult to place. Not local, certainly. American, maybe? It spoke in a calm, measured manner. Professional, perhaps, and certainly well-educated.

"I've been experiencing… a crisis of faith of late, father. I am a researcher, and until recently believed in no god but science. But now- have you seen the news in the past few years, Father? The Greek Gods, found on an island in the middle of nowhere, walking amongst us. A man who may very well be Zeus in Gotham. Demons and devils stalking the streets. Devils from a quite literal hell, before us all in the flesh."

This was a confession the priest had heard a dozen times before. People were flooding to neo-pagan religions, especially greco-roman ones, since the gods had revealed themselves to the world. It had been rather a drain on the congregations. His response was rote, and as much as he tried to sound heartfelt, the words still came out wooden.

"These things can be troubling to the soul, yes. Seeing horrors before us, we fear for the power the devil has claimed over the world. But we must be strong, and do what we can to improve things little by little."

The reply from the other end came out a croaked whisper. "That may be true, but… tell me, father. For all the devils walking the streets, when was the last time you saw an angel doing the same?"

The father started at that. That reply wasn't the one he usually got. It took him a moment to recover, and eventually he sputtered out a "Pardon me?"

"An angel. Demons run rampant, killing and raping and torturing, and they're fought back by men. Aliens, sometimes, sure, but still, animals, people. Not agents of the divine. But is your- pardon me, is not God meant to preserve us? To deliver us in our hour of need? To preserve our souls, when demons come to drag them down to hell?"

"That's not-" The priest wasn't leaning back now. He'd sat up, started paying attention. He was rapidly losing control of the conversation, and he knew it, even as his brain raced to keep up. "Mankind is the frontline against the forces of Satan. God helps those who help themselves, and if we ensure our souls are free of sin, we are sure to be saved. Only men can-"

"January 8th, Deacon Blackfire summons a demon which drags a family of three off to hell." The voice on the other side retorted in a voice that was deathly calm, before chuckling darkly. "I'm assuming the four-year-old child was a sinner, then. He must have been terrified. March 17th, Zatanna stops an succubus that was summoned into a frat party, eight dead. Alcoholism and wanton sex is against your God's will, so I suppose that makes sense. June 12th, two women-"

The priest was starting to go red in the face. His confusion was rapidly turning to anger, though he fought with all his strength to maintain his composure.

"Now listen here, this is a place of confession, not one for you to mock and belittle The Lord. If you have a sin to confess, I can hear and forgive it, but otherwise, it might be best if you leave."

There's a pause from the other side, and Father Redding was somewhat mollified at the thought that he'd actually cowed whoever he was talking to. The voice didn't belong to a member of his congregation that he recognised, so he had been wondering exactly who it was, whether they were from out of town or simply a recent convert from nearby, like he'd said.

Whoever they were, when they spoke up again, their voice was softer. "My apologies, father. As I said, I am having a crisis of faith. The presence of these… demons calls many of my old theories on reality into question. I used to think that there was nothing to this world other than the material, and that it was up to mankind to find the strength to save themselves. Because the only other answer I could think of was yours. That there was a mystical force, a God that would save us. Tell me, father. Do you truly think if a demon came down today to claim your soul, your God would save you?"

"Of course I do!" The Priest stood up, his voice booming like thunder as he said "The lord and my faith will deliver me if I ever were to face such a monster, that I may use my own strength to protect my flock, as well. I have watched over this town, this church, for three decades now, and-"

The priest could have gone on for days now that he was in full flow. Anyone who had seen him at Sunday mass not an hour ago knew that once he started he was never going to stop.

He began to curse the man on the other end of the curtain, to denounce them as a sinner, to proclaim his own faith and virtue… and they only stopped when a puff of thick green gas burst through the privacy screen and into his face, filling his lungs and making his eyes water with choking fumes.

The priest fell to the ground, gasping for breath as the door to the confessional slowly creaked open. The supplicant stood on the other side, in full costume. He wore a tall straw hat, a dull black gas mask with blood-tinted lenses, stained and torn sack-cloth covering his whole body, and a pouch overflowing with vials of glowing green liquids in all shapes and sizes which hung at his hip. He picked up Father Redding and tossed him out of the booth and onto the church floor, the priest landing with a crash atop one of the pews.

Scarecrow stalked towards the priest, mask lenses gleaming in the light as he approached, and his voice came out with that same throaty croak that had come from behind the privacy screen.

"How about we test that theory then, hm? I'll bring you your monster… and we'll see if your God sends anybody down to save you."

—

The first thing Father Redding did was bolt for the door.

He reached the big, oaken double-doors. His church wasn't the kind with a lobby, so this was the door to freedom, and it was barred and bolted from the outside.

Scarecrow didn't even bother to look as the priest banged his fists bloody against the wood, howling for help. The supervillain just squatted on one of the pews, hauling a book over his shoulders. It was a huge, leatherbound beast of a volume, the pages covered with scrawled diagrams in blotted black ink.

The priest leapt into the air at the bang when the book hit the pew, crying in fright. He cried twice as loud again once he got a look at the cover.

"Is- is- is that bound in human flesh?"

"This?" The Scarecrow lifted it up to get a look at the front cover. It was thick, black and leathery, but- "Not flesh. What are you seeing?"

"P-pale… dripping with blood, it's-"

The Scarecrow flipped through to the very back pages, all of which had been left blank, and slipped a pen out of his pocket to scribble down a note. "Good, that means the gas is setting in. Eye dilation…" He turned to face the priest, squinting through the heavy lenses of his gas mask before saying "...Significant. Hallucinations and delirium after approximately two minutes. Slower than my usual work. Unfortunate." Another quick jotted note accompanied that comment, as Scarecrow said "Yet still lucid enough to hold conversation. That's good, I still want to be able to talk to you. I'll begin setting up the ritual, you sit tight. And Father? Try to behave. I don't want to have to tie you up. I know you won't believe me, but I'm only trying to help."

Father Redding looked down at his hands, blood running through the gaps between fingers, soaking into his skin. He stared at the blood for a long moment in disbelief, his eyes getting foggy, his head swimming. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against his own opened knuckles, pressing fingernails into the wound before howling in pain and flailing, pressing his back against the door and falling to the floor, raising his knees up against his chest as he started to hyperventilate.

The priest closed his eyes, trying to block out the phantasmagoria of hallucinations assaulting him. He put his hands together, repeating a prayer like a mantra.

"He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust. He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust. He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."

His breathing slowed a little, heartrate starting to come under control, before his eyes were snapped open and he was hauled to his feet by a blow across his face. His gaze was filled by the sight of Scarecrow's sackcloth mask, pressed so close to the priest's face that he could see baleful blue eyes staring at him from behind the mask's lenses.

"Wake up! I said I want to talk. No closing down yet!" The Scarecrow growled from behind the mask. "The more you suck up into your own mind, the worse things will get, and you'll wind up beyond words too quickly for what I have planned tonight. Prayer is very good. Helpful, even. But nothing repetitive like that. I need feedback on what you're seeing, I need you talkative."

"I- I-" The Priest stammered and flailed, trying to pull away, his face a mask of utter horror as he tried to break out of the Scarecrow's grip, and in his desperation, he threw a punch for the villain's gut. There was something under those clothes besides ragged cloth. It felt like he'd struck iron, and his knuckles tore further until bone was visible. But at least the Scarecrow let him go in response to the blow, sighing in frustration.

"If you're going to be a child and try to hurt me, you can suffer through without my assistance. Just keep giving me feedback, don't run, and don't break anything, got it?"

The priest stared uncomprehendingly for a moment or two. He couldn't bring himself to look directly at the Scarecrow, but in every shadow and every flickering light of a candle or electric lamp or dim void of a shadow he saw an even worse horror. So he did his best instead to stand his ground. To fight back, if there really was no running from what he could see.

"I don't need your help! And I won't be part of your foul experiment. You claim you're trying to help, but all you've done is assault and entrap, lie and torture. If this is your help, I need none of it, as I have the lord to see me through!"

"Well of course this is helping." The Scarecrow wandered up to the altar. Behind it were rows of candles for use in the services, not yet lit. He took them and started arraying them in front of the altar in a circle, regularly returning to his book to ensure he got the circumference and pattern right. "You can consider me your… belly of the whale. A necessary pain on the way to salvation."

"This is a punishment? But what have I done to flee god? I am no Jonah, I am-"

"Not Jonah." Scarecrow hissed in a deep, abiding frustration. "Don't you know the context of your own stories?"

"Of course I do, they were written largely in the times of the Romans and compiled by-"

"Not that!" Scarecrow roared, slamming a fist into the ground and knocking over several of his own candles, a sudden sharp bang that made the priest howl with fright, forcing him to struggle not to break and run on the spot. He started repeating the prayer from before in his own mind, silently, just to find the strength sit in his seat whilst the Scarecrow started setting the candles back upright, his motions far more tense and sudden. "I mean the anthropological science behind them! The meta-analytical works across multiple mythologies. Joseph Campbell?" He shook his head, letting out a rattling hiss. "And you call yourself a priest."

"I'm- I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Then- well, I once was a lecturer, you'll forgive me if I lecture whilst I work." The Scarecrow removed his syringe-tipped gauntlet, swapping it out for a bladed one, and started clawing deep rents in the wooden floor, raking up curls as he drew spiral patterns engraved with dozens of runes inside the circle of candles.

"All major religious myths follow the same structure. Be it Jesus, the Buddha, Osiris or Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The hero or god-to-be or whoever exists in a happy, normal home space… until the outside peeks in. Fear of the unknown. At first they refuse to go and face it, but it grows and grows until they leave their home to defeat it… and come out the other side stronger, as heroes, as gods. You should know this, it's the temptation of Christ in the desert. To become stronger, a paragon of humanity, godlike you need to face the unknown, face your darkest fears, and triumph." He clapped the priest on the back, hard. Hard enough the claws drew blood, raking across the priest's shoulderblades. Hard enough the priest trembled in pain, though at least this time he managed to keep from crying out. "Rejoyce, my friend! You're going to face your fear too, once the toxin fully sets in. This is your chance to become christ-like. Or die, either way is fine."

Even through the pain, those words seemed to reach the delirious Priest. He straightened his spine a little, murmuring "...I will- I will let The Lord flow through me, and I shall not fail. He is my fortress, my sanctuary. My fortress and my sanctuary, my fortress and-"

"Repeating yourself again. Right. Well, you remember what I said I'd do about that, no?" Scarecrow crooned, brushing his claws across the priest's back as the priest bowed his head and repeated the prayer. The priest didn't stop repeating it, even as he screamed in hot, raw, bloody pain whilst the Scarecrow ran his claws across his back, flaying his skin, letting blood spill onto the ground and run in rivulets down into the ruts gouged into the floor, filling every rune and symbol and line that had been gouged between the candles.

"This part of the ritual confused me for the longest time, you know. The blood of a priest. I wondered how they could tell, if there was some special property to holy blood. I tested everything, alcohol content, chemical levels, genetics… turns out it's not a mechanical property, it's social. The magic can't tell, but the demon values it socially. It's a bribe, makes them more willing to accept the call."

The priest arched his back in pain, shivering and shaking. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he did not beg, did not unclasp his hands. He just stood there and prayed as the candles began to flicker. The flames turned a deep red as orange sparks of energy flew from the miniature rivers of blood flowing through the circle.

"Nothing else to say? Here's your demon, father. Your monster. You truly think an angel will save you, or will you have to pass this test of your soul all on your own?" The Scarecrow crooned.

"The lord will see me through. But- I am not yours to test. He will damn your soul for this. Trial may improve the soul, but it's not your place to torture us like animals in his name!" The priest yelled out as flames started to rise from the portal on the floor. The priest's eyes went wild like an animal's as he took one step back, then another, unsure if what he was seeing was a hallucination from the gas or the truth of the world before him.

"No, you're right. It's not my place, not anymore." The Scarecrow chuckled, a low and sardonic laugh. "It's hers."

And with those words, the demon rose from the portal.

The priest saw her in all her glory.

His heart gave out, he died.

And the Scarecrow took a silent note of the fact in his journal, before closing the book and turning to face his new companion.

—

"Poor little thing. Such little brain, and you had to go and overload it almost before I got here. I barely got to taste his terror at all."

Triskele slowly glided across the floor. Her body was the skeleton of a snake, ten feet long. It glided across the floor, not slithering or shaking, not even quite touching the ground and instead simply floating along an half-inch or so from the ground. Sometimes the fine pointed tips of each rib scraped across the floor, though, tearing up curls from the wood. Her head was human, unlike the rest of her, and bore the unnaturally gorgeous visage of a woman, topped with golden curls.

The Scarecrow watched, enraptured at the sight. Taking in every motion of every vertebrae, every expression of her face, every quirk of her lips.

And those lips did quirk, coy and happy at being watched as she lowered herself down next to the dead priest and tore into his skull with her teeth.

The Scarecrow sat back and simply watched, taking his book at opening it to the most recent page. He took off his gloves and claws, wanting a precise hand, and started to draw. He sketched the scene as best he could. He was no artist, though he had experience enough with anatomical drawings that by the time Triskele had dragged the man's amygdala out of his brain and devoured it whole, he'd captured at least the basic details, and of course, the face. The beautiful face, perfect in it's cruelty.

The snake slid across to where he sat on the pews, draping a coil across his shoulders as her head peered at the sketch.

"You're getting better at that, you know."

"And you're getting better at scaring them. He died as soon as he saw you. For an alleged succubus, Lust seems to be the least of the emotions you inspire."

"Hah!" Her laugh was rich and throaty, as the pinprick touch of her spine ran across his back like acupuncture. "We pick the form our favourite mortals most want to see. But I thought you'd be upset with me, dearest. Don't you want your subjects to live?"

"This idiot never had a chance." His voice dripped with contempt as he gestured to the priest. "It takes a hero or a god or a buddha to make it through the fear state alive, to pass the test and grow stronger. A Bat or a Superman. This man is no Batman."

"Then why pick him? Don't get me wrong, the blood of a priest is…" Her voice trembled a little as she said "Delightful. Like the flesh of an apple in springtime. But you have enough of my blood as an ingredient for your gas not to need to bribe me for more. Don't tell me you just wanted the pleasure of my company?"

"No…" The Scarecrow sighed, standing up. He didn't shrug the succubus off, wearing her like a scarf as he stepped up to the priest, nudging his corpse with a foot before looking around the room. His eyes went up to the altar, to the giant golden cross hanging on the wall behind it, overlooking the whole bloody scene. "I wanted to test a theory, that's all. To make sure I was correct about something."

"I'm hurt! And here I got my hopes up. If only I had a heart for you to rend in two." The snake's coils tightened around his neck as she mimed her heartbreak, threatening to constrict him further. To strangle or snap. He didn't even flinch, knowing she'd never dare to. They'd been working together long enough he could be certain of that.

He gave her a pat on the head, saying "When our grand experiment is done, then we'll talk. Until then, yes, work calls only."

She pouted, before letting out a soft sigh. Her breath against his ear left a slight burn mark, searing and scorching flesh.

"Well, you may as well tell me, then. What theory?"

"I wanted to know if he was right. If demons exist, surely angels must… and if angels are the enemy of their God, surely he'd send one to protect the soul of a priest."

She sniffed the air, before shaking her head. "It doesn't smell any more of angel than any other church does. Jonathan..."

"Scarecrow, please." He said, sharply. For the first time he turned stiff in her presence, however comfortable he'd been before under her grip, touching and wearing a creature whose whole body was tipped like daggers.

"Scarecrow. As much as I appreciate your aid in proving my own theory about this fear state of yours, this isn't new information. He never saves priests, the lazy bastard. I've eaten popes at least once before, and no angel intervened then, either."

"I wanted to see it for myself." He said, approaching the cross. He placed his bare fingers against the burnished gold, feeling the cold metal against his skin. And nothing else. No energy, no resonance. No divine fire or scorching heat, no smiting for his sins.

Just metal, cold and dead.

"No angels came. I know you claim it's incompetence, but that would mean He is not omnipotent. If devils exist, and angels, and a Lord above. Buddhas and bodhisattvas and Mara, devas and asuras… there's only one explanation for why an omnipotent being would allow all that."

"You're part of the system, Triskele. All you demons. You're meant to test people, terrify them, expose them to their deepest, darkest fears. It was set up that way deliberately, that's your purpose."

"You're there to find those rare, exceptional people with the strength to survive the Fear State… and to turn them into gods."