Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-08-04 01:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, scarecrow |
Who: The Bat & Jonathan Crane
What: Hunting down the baddie.
Where: Marvel door.
When: After Riddler's call.
Warnings/Rating: Violence.
With the timer ticking down the remaining minutes, the Bat had no time to lose. He could consider the implications of Tony Stark being alive and this SHIELD later, once he had Crane subdued and contained, where he was no longer a threat nor a flight risk. That the doctor had managed to cross into another door infuriated him, but he still saw Crane as very much his problem and under no circumstances would he hand him over to an organization he knew nothing about in a world he did not trust. They could do what they liked with their criminals in Marvel, but Crane was not theirs, regardless of whatever crimes he might have committed on their soil. If Loki, for example, were to cross into Gotham, the Bat would only go so far as to capture him and deliver him back to his own world; he would not cross the line and deliver his own form of justice. To say he was territorial would be to grossly minimize just how possessive he was of Gotham and all its inhabitants, mad doctor or no.
Controlling Luke was simple, especially since he put up no struggle. In this, he was a vessel, a way to get from the Gotham door to the Marvel door within his time limit. He masked his face as a precaution, as the connection between himself and Batman was not one either of them wanted revealed. With five minutes to go he reached the door in question and found it open, as Crane had obviously implicitly trusted Eddie to come alone and not alert anyone else. Over time, Nigma had steadily proved himself to be a changed man, and this was yet another piece of strong evidence in favor of him being a different man than he’d been nearly a year ago. He could have kept this to himself, or he could have come to see Crane and acted like the old him would have.
But he had done neither, and the Bat would remember that.
As soon as Luke stepped through, gone were the jeans and hooded sweatshirt, the tall frame that was more corded strength than bulk. The Bat emerged on the other side, looming black and pointed cowl, his cape swirling silently round his heels until it settled into its usual stasis. His footfalls, while usually heavy, were quiet now, and the only sound was the door he’d come through slowly creaking shut behind him.
It was just the two of them now, himself and Crane, and the Bat was fully expecting the other man to not come quietly. Fortunately, however, he was nothing if not prepared for every possible scenario, and he had every intention of dragging him back through the door and into Gotham, where he belonged.
It was a few moments before the hour was up that Crane had opened the door that led to the hotel, leaving it open a crack in silent invitation, but he was sure that Eddie knew how to open the door, knew how to let himself in without having to ask for entrance. So Crane went about his business in the rundown warehouse he had settled in. It was as close to a home as he could get without actually paying rent. A cot with some blankets and pillows in one corner, a few personal belongings that consisted mostly of a couple changes of clothing, soap, other toiletries. But the majority of the space was taken up by the tables he had set up, jars of this and that, a host of syringes in sterile packaging, and there, on the corner of one table, his mask.
It wasn't quite the same as the one that had been destroyed some time ago, the burlap darker, the stitches more even. It was a labor of love, every stitch laid in with some care, the rebreather apparatus nestled in, almost invisible from the outside. A briefcase lay near it, aerosol dispensers, the other tools of his trade. He made no effort to hide any of it, leaving it out for all to see, unashamed.
The creek of the door drew his attention, but his gaze stayed on the chemicals he was working with, safety glasses and a dust mask hiding much of his face, his hair wild about his head as he carefully measured out a precise amount of a clear liquid. "I was beginning to think that you were going to stand me up, Edward," Crane called out, never thinking for a moment that his friend (because Eddie was still his friend no matter the distrust the other man seemed to hold for him) would ever betray him. "Go on. Pull up a seat. I'd offer you something to drink, but you'll have to go down to the bodega several blocks away if you want anything."
As Crane spoke, oblivious to the fact that Edward had indeed betrayed him, the Bat looked around, gaze roaming far and wide within the warehouse to ensure he took in every last detail. The tables held his attention longest, rows of jars and syringes and whatever else the mad doctor used to prey upon the weak and vulnerable, conducting his own sick, twisted experiments to satisfy a sort of sadism he doubted could ever be cured. But there was time for that, time to decide what to do with him, where to keep him incarcerated and how. It would not be here, in the clutches of an organization he knew virtually anything about and a dead man who, apparently was not so dead at all.
He was quiet for a few moments, motionless and still. No man had had the number of opportunities afforded to Crane, yet he chose to waste each and every one. Now, the Bat knew, it wasn’t a matter of whether or not Crane was capable of change; he didn’t want to, and that was what mattered. He could receive the best care money could buy and would still refuse to better himself. So be it, then.
There was no indication that the Bat had moved. Seconds, barely, and he was behind the man, looming over his seated form. “I’d rather stand, Crane.” And then, without warning, gloved fingers dug painfully into the other man’s scalp and yanked his head back, only to slam it forward onto the table a heartbeat later.
Some people said that those who were oblivious to what was going on around them had the opportunity to be happy; they didn't know about the bad things, didn't know about the boogeymen lurking in every corner, so their ignorance was bliss. That was not the case, however, with Crane as the Bat approached. There was no warning, steps so silent and full of stealth, that he worked up until the moment a hand tangled in his hair and pulled his head back hard enough that his neck burned in protest. The flask and test tube he held in his hands fell, shattering on the concrete floor, the unknown liquids splattering everywhere and, when they combined, fumes started to rise up from the floor towards them.
For a moment, there was a vision of wide eyes, wild brown waves of hair, and a passing thought of 'this isn't good' before the Bat pressed with his hand, slamming his face into the table with enough force that for a moment, he couldn't think, couldn't react, blood streaming from a nose that was likely broken. The sweet smell of the fumes wafted towards them, and with it, there were other things that happened. It permeated the area around them, sweet and cloying, dangerous in its haze. Crane drew in a shaky breath, inhaling some of the toxin, and as he realised what it was, what had happened, he found the ability to smile. "Bat Bat Bat," he mumbled, voice thick, "I was looking for a guinea pig for this one." Crane let out a laugh, shaky and a bit on the manic side, the fumes reaching higher. "Let's hope this one doesn't kill. It'd be a shame to die right now, wouldn't it?"
Fortunately, the Bat was quick to react. His attention was drawn downward, to where volatile liquids mixed and fumes rose from whatever was created in the aftermath, but behind the cowl he remained impassive. Lips pressed tightly together to avoid inhaling the toxins, he covered the lower (exposed) half of his face with his free, kevlar-clad arm and released his hold on Crane with the other, wresting free a small gas mask from his utility belt and securing it over his mouth and nose. Then and only then did he allow himself to breathe, though a few hints of the rising fumes might have inadvertently slipped by; regardless, a miniscule amount at worst. The cowl had built in lenses, and he looked down at Crane from behind opaque black that revealed even less than usual.
"It seems that you've become your own guinea pig," he observed. "You should be asking yourself whether or not it would be a shame to die, Crane, not me." He made no attempt to shield the other man from the fumes; if he was to be felled by his own sword, then so be it. He grasped the man's collar and yanked him out of his chair, and as he loosened his hold his other hand, wound into a tight fist, connected solidly with his jaw, enough force behind the blow to send him sprawling.
Despite the fumes that rose, there was no fear on the Scarecrow's face, and if one had to be perfectly honest, it was questionable whether the man could even feel fear any longer with the amount of time he spent concocting his fear toxins and poisons. The exposure had left him nearly immune to most of what he made, and even the current one only had a passing effect on him, something that would wear off within a few hours, bleed out of his system fully in just a day or so. It was the Bat he was more interested in, the effects that little breath might have had on the masked man.
"I'm not going to die, Bat man," Crane said, coughing into the crook of his arm, at least until the Bat grabbed his collar and hauled him bodily out of his chair. His hair flew back from his face, a smile stretching features that were angular to the point of sliding away from any sort of attractiveness. He had just long enough to give him a grin before that fist landed on his jaw and he was spent to the ground, a grunt of pain escaping him as he landed, rolling over onto his side with a hand coming to his face to cushion bruised skin. "Is that all you've got?" he asked, his words thick with pain, with flesh that was already swelling. "Is this what you've come to? Hitting a defenseless man in his laboratory as he works?" Crane brushed at the corner of his mouth, fingers coming away red, but he had enough sense to stay upon the ground when he turned to look up at the man, hair stuck to his face with perspiration.
In a deep, dark place within himself, the Bat found himself thinking what a shame it was that Crane should survive. He would never cause the man’s death himself, nor would he allow him to die at the hand of another, but if he had been poisoned by his own toxins and succummed to them... well, as with Ra’s so long ago, he didn’t have to save him. Regardless, to live meant a future of sedation and imprisonment unless he was somehow rehabilitated. Eddie seemed to think it was possible, but he wasn’t as certain. Time and time again Crane had a chance to change, to redeem himself, and time and time again he’d refused. His footfalls were heavy as he approached the fallen man, sprawled and bruised, looming over his form.
“Hitting a defenseless man,” he repeated, incredulous. “No. You are not a doctor, Crane. You’re not a scientist. You’re a monster. Your toxins have killed hundreds, and you feel nothing for what you’ve done. Instead of accepting responsibility, you cast the blame elsewhere. You play God with lives and end them without thought.” In an instant he was kneeling on Crane’s chest, all that kevlar and weight near crushing and impossible to move. “You are finished,” he snarled, raising his fist again, and again, and again. Each blow was heavier than the last, and it was only years and years of training and self-control which kept him from going too far. And then, just as the other man would have been teetering on the edge between consciousness and unconsciousness, he took hold and lifted him off the ground, as though his weight was nothing, and threw him into the table, his laboratory, the heavy thump of flesh accompanied by shattering glass and snapping wood.
Answers were bubbling up, explanations, statements that if he was truly playing God, a lot more people would not be walking this earth, but he didn't get a chance before the Bat was on him, kneeling, crushing the breath out of him. For a moment that should have been terrifying, he thought he heard something crack, something give way beneath that immense weight, but any worry that he might have had about that was forgotten as closed fists were thrown with unerring accuracy.
The first couple hurt, but it wasn't long before the pain devolved into something far away and distant, something that he recognized as being a bad sign, and no relief was offered to the bleeding crow as he was hauled up. Crane was barely clinging to consciousness when he was thrown into the table, glass breaking, chemicals spilling, shards of glass and splintered wood digging into his back when he landed. Fumes wafted up as chemicals mixed and merged, his heart a fluttering thing in the cage of his chest as his body fought for consciousness. "You won't kill me," Crane got out, the words nearly impossible to understand with a jaw that was likely broken, "so I'll never be truly finished." It was followed up with a bubbling laugh, blood speckling his lips as they stretched into a grin, gaze unfocused and staring at the ceiling, giggling to himself.
The Bat stepped over broken glass and debris like it was inconsequential, crushing the shards further beneath his heavy boots. Once he reached Crane’s side, he hauled the battered, bleeding man to his feet, fingers wound tight in the fabric of his collar and forcing him to remain upright even though his weight likely couldn’t have supported him. “Death is too good for you,” he told him. “Too easy. You’ll live, and the rest of your life will consist of nothing but sedation and incarceration if you prove incapable or unwilling to change.” In all honesty, that was what he expected. He could find therapists and doctors, submit him to the most rigorous rehabilitation programs, but in the end Jonathan Crane would need to be the one who chose to reform or not to reform and he doubted the other man was capable of such a thing even if he did for some reason decide he wanted it. He frowned down at him, lips curled in disgust as he decided they’d wasted enough time already. The sooner he got him back to Gotham, the better. One last blow to the temple was enough, bringing in unconsciousness and silencing those manic giggles that made his skin crawl, even beneath layers of black and kevlar.
The future that the Bat painted for him might have bothered him more had his thoughts not been so scattered and fragmented from the multiple blows that he had taken from the anti-hero. As it was, he was only slightly aware of it, the laughter still bubbling up in little fits and bursts. He might have protested, might have said something, but that closed fist to his temple shooed away the last remnants of awareness that he was clinging to, leaving the Scarecrow a limp, long-limbed thing who hung from the collar of his shirt where the Bat's hand fisted in it.
It would have been so, so easy to finish this right then and there. Crane was unconscious. No one was there to stop him. The Bat stared down at the limp, unmoving man, and his fingers twitched, but after a moment he let him drop heavily to the ground. No. He wouldn’t break his rule and become a murderer for a man like this, though he shuddered when he recalled the fear toxin, what he’d done under its influence, and how Crane had been responsible. But he was very, very good at locking things up in a deep, dark place within himself, not acknowledging the skeletons he’d amassed, and he did so now. What mattered now was getting Crane back to Gotham, keeping him sedated and secure, and ensuring that someone of his choice stepped into the position Crane left behind.
Fortunately, he’d prepared before coming here. Back in Gotham, the door would open to the Cave, where an IV and restraints awaited the doctor he hoisted over his shoulder like he was nothing more than human cargo to be moved. The Bat turned on heel, more glass crunching under his feet as he made his way to the door he’d come through, to the hotel, the hallway, and inevitably, his own door, where they both belonged.