Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-09-23 20:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, door: dc comics, scarecrow |
Who: Batman and Jonathan Crane
What: Consequences.
Where: Arkham.
When: Recently?
Warnings/Rating: Violence.
Jonathan Crane was a problem which should have been dealt with long ago, and Batman had no one to blame but himself for failing to do so. Countless people had suffered at his hands, and at the mercy of his toxins, and now, children had died as a result of his madness. Selina had been poisoned multiple times, and in exchange for an antidote he had been foolish enough to temporarily give Crane power over Arkham, his prime hunting grounds, despite the knowledge that it would not be surrendered so easily. Beyond that, he’d violated the terms of their deal, done something to Jason which put people on the other side of the door, as well as himself, in danger; all in all, the Bat had had quite enough. When Crane reached the point of openly taunting him in the journals, he knew it was time to end this once and for all.
As usual, the Bat told no one of his plans. He brought no back up, though he did have his comm in his ear, as always, but it was not connected to their main network just yet. Before stepping foot inside the asylum, however, he hacked into the security systems and rewired one set of cameras in order to ensure his entrance was off the radar. Gaining access was, perhaps, the easiest part, and once inside, he initiated a lockdown sequence in order to ensure Crane could not escape. Only he could override the system to reverse the lockdown; any other attempts would fail. It was executed silently, swiftly, and he hacked the radio transmissions as well in order to inform the security guards--woefully understaffed and inexperienced, but better than nothing--that there was no need for alarm. Ripples of Batman being within the asylum passed quietly, yet no one could pinpoint his exact location; only that he was there.
It was not Batman himself who knocked on the door of what served as Crane’s office, at least for a few moments longer. No, it was one of the doctors, the few who had pledged some sort of subjugation to Crane. He was wide-eyed and shaking, and brought with him a message; the Batman had come for him, and there was no way out.
The unwelcome visit of the caped crusader was not wholly unexpected; the man had been threatening it for some time, and Crane wasn’t foolish enough to think that it wouldn’t happen eventually. Still, it would have been nice to have some proper warning, something other than the doctor in the white lab coat with news of the arrival. But any notice was advance notice in his book, and he was hardly going to let this tip go by. A wave of his hand sent the doctor scurrying back to wherever he wanted to be, because Crane had things to do.
Just like survivalists planned for the apocalypse, Dr. Jonathan Crane planned for his meeting with the Batman. And with the Batman, he had to be a bit more on the creative side. Most people didn’t anticipate his use of fear toxin in its gaseous state, but those that knew him knew of his methods, thus the need to switch it up a bit. And those needles had worked oh so well on the cat that he couldn’t help but employ their use again. Up his sleeve, in his pockets, Crane was well equipped by the time Batman strolled around to his office. Prepared as best he could, Crane locked the door to his office and sat back at his mahogany desk, playing at paperwork as he waited for the inevitable.
It was very much premeditated, his decision to make Crane aware of his presence in advance. The Bat wanted to see how he would react, what measures he would take in preparation, when all his exits were cut off and he was left with only a handful of options. Rather than attempt to amass a small army, however, or use the inmates to his advantage, he retreated to his office instead-- as though a locked door would keep him safe. Disappointing, perhaps, if he had expectations to begin with, but the Bat knew better than to assume this would be easy simply because Crane’s actions appeared to be little more than a retreat. He’d come prepared with a gas mask, small enough to cover his mouth as the rest of his face was hidden by the cowl, not wanting to risk a repeat of what had occurred the last time he’d come into contact with the mad doctor’s fear gas. As for a needle, as he’d used on Selina and Jason, there was little he could to do prevent that, but he could only hope that his armor would be enough and that, should Crane attempt to inject him with something.
The foolish doctor, having served his purpose, was swiftly rendered unconscious and placed with the rest of the staff he had identified as hostile in an empty cell. He had likely missed some, but they were wise enough to stay out of his way as the Bat paved his way to Crane’s office, disgusted by the man’s cowardice. There was no hesitation once he reached his destination; he kicked in the door once, then twice, and a third time for good measure, wood splintering and cracking under the weight of an angry Bat in kevlar and armored boots as the door caved inward on itself.
If Batman’s dramatic entrance bothered Crane, it was not visible upon his face. In fact, even as the door caved inwards, wood splintering and fracturing, glass shattering and spilling over the floor, the good doctor did not even look up. A pen was pressed to paper, glasses sliding down on an angular nose, his other hand tapping a steady rhythm upon the top of his desk. “I do hope you have an appointment. I’m rather busy today, and if you don’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to see the front desk. If it’s an emergency, I suggest calling an ambulance.” The words were crisp and brisk, not missing a beat, and paying not a lick of attention to Batman standing there in the doorway of his office. Inwardly, Crane was a mass of hurried thinking, planning, taking in the gas mask that covered a portion of the man’s face, smirking inwardly at that predictable method of defense.
Crane’s lack of reaction was disconcerting. It was too much to believe that the man simply acknowledged that his time had come, and to resist was futile. No, something lurked behind that tableau of a doctor at work, the facade of a calm man, one who had no reason to fear that which now stood in the doorway amidst what remained of the door to his office. The Bat’s expression was unreadable behind the combination of mask and cowl, but his eyes were narrowed dangerously, almost black with anger and derision, which spoke volumes. “Is this a joke to you, Crane?” His usual guttural growl was oddly calm, as much as it could be, and he barely made a sound as he stepped forward into the room. He watched the other man for a moment, head tipped to the side, and when he moved there was no forewarning. The Bat seized the desk and all but tossed it aside, as though it weighed nothing, papers scattering about as the piece of furniture tipped and hit the floor with a loud thump. “You have a choice,” he snarled. “Get up and come quietly, or I will drag you out of this office to the cell you’ll be spending your foreseeable future in.”
The voice caused Crane to look up, pen in hand, tapping at the point of his chin as he listened to what the Bat had to say. “It’s not a joke in the slightest. I’m simply very busy, and don’t have time for the likes of you. I’ve an asylum to run. They don’t run themselves very well, I’ve found. So please. The door was behind you, if you’ll see yourself o-”
The words broke off as his desk was launched to the side, the heels of his feet pressing against the floor, the leather chair propelled backwards until it tapped against the wall behind him with a soft ‘click’. The pen was retracted, tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, the movement carrying a twofold purpose as it gave him time to palm one of the syringes he had tucked away. It was small, disposable, easily concealed against his palm in a move that was so smooth that one would have to be looking for it to notice. “Neither of those seem to be very pleasurable choices. Perhaps you ought to reconsider leaving before something we both will regret happens.”
To the Bat, who had no interest in what Crane had to say, the other man’s words were as weak and ineffectual as drops of water upon a blazing inferno. He acknowledged their existence, allowed them to register as sounds, strung together because, most likely, the doctor liked the sound of his own voice, but nothing more. Not even the most eloquent of speeches could deter him now. With the desk out of the way, he advanced upon Crane with the slow, purposeful gait of a predator, like a very large cat, and perhaps he would have noticed the movement for what it was under different circumstances. Normally, he was much more observant, but somewhere between the dead children and finding Jason in Arkham, this had become personal, and that was just as dangerous to him as it was to Crane.
When he allowed a situation to become personal, which had occurred very rarely in the course of his lifetime, he came more impulsive, prone to being ruled by emotion rather than logic and reason. Anger and hatred reared their ugly heads, and strategy was sacrificed for results. The Bat should have known better. There was a reason he isolated himself, a reason he strove not to forge personal relationships aside from the man who had known him since birth; yet he had come too far to turn back now. If Batman could not prevail over the Scarecrow, one whom he had bested in the past, then he was truly unfit to fight for Gotham.
“Are you capable of regret, Crane?” It was a rhetorical question, one he did not expect an answer to, and his voice was like thunder in the confines of the room. “For the lives you’ve ruined, for the pain you’ve caused, and will cause, if I allow you to remain free... in any case, you’ll have plenty of time to think it over.” The Bat seized Crane’s collar with both hands and tugged roughly, dragging him forward and off the chair. “My only regret is allowing this to go on as long as it has. But no more,” he vowed, eyes burning like hellfire and vengeance behind the cowl. “No more.”
Of course he was capable of it, at least as capable as someone could be when squashing a hoard of cockroaches beneath the sole of their shoe. Regret didn’t make someone better than someone else, could be felt for any number of things, most of which would be selfish in nature. Humans were, by their very definition, selfish creatures, something that Crane had learned very thoroughly throughout his schooling. Embracing that, though, was something people seemed to have trouble with. They railed against their very nature, pushed to be something they could not be, and in the end, they died. Miserable. Alone.
“And if I told you that I regretted every life that I’ve ruined? That I’ve ended, either directly or indirectly? What would you do then?” Crane inquired as he was dragged up from the chair, his gaze sweeping this way and that, easily categorized as panic in the face of all that was going on. “Will you slap me on the wrist and make me promise never to do it again?” They both knew that was hardly going to happen, and it was easy to spit the words back in his face, caring little for the emotions that burned in those dark eyes. The marvelous thing about the Batman was one simple fact: he was unwilling, incapable, unable to give any sort of permanence to his decisions. Throwing the worst of Gotham behind bars only alleviated the problem for a short time. They would be back, eventually, so it was, in a way, as though Batman wanted them to stick around. He simply wanted to slow them down, give himself time to regroup, before the entire sick charade began again. “Haven’t you done this to me before?” Crane continued, his eyes emotionless behind the rims of his glasses. “Thrown me behind bars. Vowed to be done with me once and for all?” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile. “And what happened last time? I got out. It keeps happening. You lock me up. I find my way out, and we do it all over again.”
The smile widened, something truly disturbing with those thin lips and dead eyes. “You do know the definition of insanity, don’t you? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” And those words came with Crane taking a step forward, the action seemingly to try and twist out of his jacket, but instead of doing so, he threw an arm up, fingers curled around the plastic syringe, and with as much force as he could manage, he thrust it towards the man’s inner elbow, a soft place to deliver its treasure.
The Bat’s grip was like iron and steel, welded tight, and his gaze seared through Crane as he spoke, as though he could separate truth from lies through mere sight alone. Yet he saw what he wanted to see, panic in the face of defeat, and his words were merely an attempt to regain the upper hand for as long as he had left. It was pathetic. It was cowardly. “If I truly believed you were capable of remorse, Crane, I would help you,” he said grimly. Those who truly sought redemption would never be denied his assistance. “But I look at you, and I see a man incapable of caring for anyone outside of himself. If you truly felt regret, you would stop.” Permanence was a problem for Batman. The only true permanent solution was death, and he refused to become a murderer, even for the sake of stopping madmen like Crane and the Joker. He would be no better than them if he crossed that line, and Gotham needed to rise above blood and corruption, not accustom itself to it. There was a cycle, however, and while he knew that, Crane’s smug smile raised his ire in a way only he could. “This time will be different. You’re only a man, Jonathan Crane, and men can be imprisoned. You will never escape from where I’m going to put you, and no one will be able to get you out either.”
By that point, the last of his patience was gone, and he no longer had any desire to hear the sound of Crane’s voice, much less what he had to say. The Bat’s mouth tightened into a firm line, and he prepared to drag him out of the office as the other man took a step forward, seemingly in an ill-advised endeavor to twist free, and he moved to shove him back in irritation before realizing what Crane had truly intended. He saw the syringe too late, realized what it meant, and the trade he’d made of protection for flexibility and easier movement in the Batsuit had never quite backfired on him as it did then. The needle didn’t go in as deep as it would have had he been unarmored, but it was enough, and the Bat hissed at the unfamiliarity of it. There was no time for panic, for self loathing, not just then; he reacted instinctively, lashing out with his good hand and driving his palm upward, the amount of force he used unchecked, enough to smash cartilage and break the good doctor’s nose.
“You only see what you want to see in me, Batman. Do not pretend otherwise because then I’ll know that you truly are a liar.” The promise of imprisonment did not scare Crane in the way it might have many men, nor did he believe in the permanence that the man threatened. Nothing was permanent besides death, and even that could be worked around if you knew the right people, it seemed.
But things soon turned upside down as the world shuffled into action. The syringe struck home, and moments before the palm of Batman’s hand was driven forward towards his face, the plunger was depressed, delivering its payload into its waiting victim. Laughter erupted from him just as the force of the strike impacted his face, a loud crack as his nose broke, blood streaming down, his back hitting the wall behind him moments later, no further room to run. “You think you’re better than all of us,” Crane ground out, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose despite the pain that lanced through, trying to stem the flow of blood. “Righteous. Good. Yet you think nothing of physical harm when it suits you. Bombs and traps and violence when it suits your path.” He laughed again, the sound petering out into a high-pitched giggle. “You’re just as black at your core as we are, just as evil and horrible and haunted. And someday, someone truly ‘good’ will show you just how twisted your heart is.”
Had the Bat been capable of it, he would have told Crane that in this, like so much else, he was wrong. He wanted to save Gotham, yes, and he longed for the day when it would no longer need him, when it could deal with crime on its own as the other cities of the world could, but most of all he wanted the good in people to prevail. That was the hope he stood for, that even criminals could change, could redeem themselves, so long as they wanted it for themselves. In truth, what Batman wanted to see in all his adversaries was the potential for good, for more than they had already shown themselves capable of. Crane may have thought he assumed the worst, but he still held out hope for the best. The Bat had not yet lost his faith in people, or in Gotham itself, and that was what set him apart.
But all of that remained unsaid, as he was too preoccupied with whatever had been in that syringe. He tore it free, tossed it aside, but it was too late; the damage was done. The Bat staggered unsteadily for a moment, regaining his sense of balance, before regarding Crane with a look that was equal parts wariness and loathing. “No,” he growled. “I am nothing like you.” He needed to get out, to leave the asylum, but he would have to override the lockdown to do so, which would defeat the whole purpose of trapping Crane inside. “You seek to destroy, to cause harm, everything I stand against. No,” he repeated, moving forward to reach for the man again, barely disguised fury simmering beneath the surface. His composure could only last so long now. “What was in that syringe?” He demanded. “What did you give me? Tell me what it was!”
There was another laugh as the Batman demanded anything from him, all those denials, refusals said as though he were so used to them. Perhaps he believed that if he said it enough it would become reality; delusional, obviously. Crane had seen enough of that type throughout the years. But then came the demands once more, rough words, guttural tones that demanded answers, answers that Crane was not going to give up so easily. “You think I would tell you?” he asked, his voice incredulous in its tone. “After you barge into my office? Threaten me? Attempt to take back what you believe I do not deserve?” Crane gave a shake of his head, his voice derisive even as Batman reached for him once more with one black gloved hand.
“This for that, Bat man. I drive a hard bargain. You want to know what was in there? Then you take yourself and those morals you’ve built your castle on, and you leave me here in Arkham.” Crane stepped forward, meeting him, nearly nose to nose with his lanky height. “You do that, and you promise to keep your hands to yourself, and I’ll tell you what it was. I’ll even give you the formula for the antidote because I? I am a good doctor. But if you persist in this folly? You’ll never find out what it was. I guarantee that.”
There didn’t seem to be any immediate effects, not like it had been with the fear gas, but the Bat knew better than to assume that was a good thing. It could be something similar to what he had injected Jason with, and he was already having a difficult enough time isolating the key compound in order to synthesize an antidote; how could he have the time to find one for himself as well? Because of his foolish mistake, this was an additional worry on top of far too many. But the time for self-deprecation could come later.
For now, he had to deal with Crane. One benefit to whatever was in that syringe, he supposed, was that he was still capable of doing so.
“I’m done making deals with you, Crane,” the Bat informed him, his gaze burning into the other man’s. “Arkham is no longer yours, and I won’t sacrifice the future of this institution and those within it even if it means saving myself. You should know better than that. As I said, I am not like you.” For others, he would strike bargains, but not for himself. Never for himself. This time, when the Bat reached for him, it was with his old certainty, and he twisted one arm up behind his back as he turned, using the motion to force Crane forward while his arm was held back. “Move,” he snarled, “or as I said, I will drag you out myself.”
Crane had no inclination to give in meekly, to be a thing that the great and illustrious Batman could boss around easily. “Words said by a foolish man,” Crane said as his arm was twisted up behind his back, his shoulder aching immediately with the strain, but he did little more than grimace at the pain. “Do not come crying to me later when you are on your deathbed, wishing for an antidote to my toxins. Because I will tell you that I do not make deals with you.” He still had no fear of imprisonment; Riddler knew where he would be, and he could always use that girl on the other side of the door to get what he needed done. That was the glorious thing about the door; he was never truly on his own.
The Bat’s anger was always a fearsome thing to behold, but now it had mutated, become something else entirely, and even if whatever now flowed through his veins would eventually weaken him, as Jason's had, he felt none of that just then; his fury eclipsed all else. "I will never come to you, crying or otherwise," he vowed. He had considered the possibility of a breakout attempt, and even if one occurred, he would very much like to see anyone, the Riddler or otherwise, get past the safeguards he had in place. The last of his patience had been exhausted, and the Bat no longer wished to waste time on words. Without warning, one armored arm hooked around Crane's throat in a vicious sleeper hold, while his other hand still kept the doctor's arm pinned; dealing with an unconscious Crane would be much easier, and diminish the desire to break every bone in his body.
That fury was an almost tangible thing in the room right then, the taste of it in the air acrid, burning, so close to fear but so different as well. Crane couldn’t help but grin even as Batman rebuked him. “We shall see what the weeks bring and see if you eat those words, Batman,” Crane ground out to him. His breath caught in the next moment, that anger escalating to a fevered pitch as the arm came around his throat, tight, unyielding. His free hand came up to pull on that arm as oxygen was cut off to his brain, fingertips clawing, grasping, a final effort towards freedom, but the strength of the Bat far outmatched his own, at least physically. Grey bled into his vision, darkening into black, and it was only a matter of moments before the good doctor was a heavy, limp thing held up only by that arm around his throat. Fingers slipped from where they had struggled moments earlier, his hand falling heavy at his side as he slipped into darkness.
With the source of his anger now gone limp and heavy, the Bat managed to regain his composure, finding his center and pulling forth his cloak of calm from the depths of blackness and shadow, a maelstrom which rarely made it to the surface as it just had. His hold on Crane loosened as he allowed the man to fall to the floor, a motionless heap, and he leaned heavily against the overturned desk as he contemplated what had occurred. He hadn’t allowed his emotions to rule him to such a degree in years, since he was a young man; before Batman, when justice was equated with revenge and he only cared about his own pain. Perhaps it was Luke’s presence beginning to take its toll. Perhaps it was the newness of no longer being alone, of having connections where there were previously none, or this new Gotham where hope seemed like a distant dream and salvation hung precariously at the cliff’s edge. Whatever the reason, he could not let it happen again. He was better than this; he had to be better than this. Batman was more than just a man, more than flesh and blood, and as a symbol he needed to remain infallible, incorruptible.
A strange sort of weariness began to set in, reminding him of the foreign substance which now infected him. The Bat was frustrated with himself for making such a foolish mistake, giving Crane the exact sort of opening he should have known to avoid, but whatever else, it would not cost him his life. He would find an antidote, somehow, because it was not just his life that hung in the balance; but he would find it on his own. No one, he decided, was to know about this. Not even Luke, not unless it became necessary. He was aware of what went on in Las Vegas, and if the situation deteriorated he would force the boy through the door until it was rectified.
A small crowd had gathered around the broken-in door to Crane’s office, and they flinched back, some actually cowering like children, as Batman emerged with the good doctor himself slung over his shoulder. No one noticed that he favored one side more than the other, disguising a limp, and no one noticed the overall sense of something being off. They parted to let him pass, wide-eyed and silent, and the Bat made his way throughout the maze of an asylum until he had left his spectators behind. Beneath Arkham itself lay a tunnel, something he had begun working on after Crane was first captured, and had continued with in secret as more and more villains appeared. Only a few cells had been created thus far, but he only needed one; to the naked eye, there were simply walls on both side, smooth and undisturbed, and he trusted no one with this secret save for one of the doctors here, one who had good reason to despise Jonathan Crane and none of aid him. Aside from this man, he was the only one who knew of their existence, and the only one who knew precisely where and how to run his fingers over the surface so a panel raised where there had previously been none. Behind that were a set of bars, and behind those, a veritable hole in the wall, with only the basic amenities of a prisoner’s cell. Food would be provided by the doctor, as well as other necessities, but Crane would be bound in a straightjacket and should he prove to be uncooperative or particularly problematic, sedated as well.
The Bat’s movements became slower as time passed, as he wrestled the unconscious man into his restraints and laid him out on the bed. He knew the serum, whatever it was, wouldn’t kill him outright, but he didn’t like the feeling regardless. It was only temporary, much like Jason’s in that sense, an initial bout of unconscious looming before a false lull which preceded what the injection would truly do, but he knew none of that just then, and thus had no idea what to expect. He left Crane behind once he was satisfied, concrete wall at his back, and he managed to make it outside to the Tumbler before his knees buckled and gave out, before he dragged himself inside, before the darkness engulfed him.
Autopilot took him home, to an obscure area of the cave, where there was no risk of anyone finding him before he awoke.