Alexander Pierce III knows your (darkestfears) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-06-01 19:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman, scarecrow |
Who: Scarecrow/Jonathan Crane, Catwoman/Selina Kyle, and the Bats/Bruce Wayne
What: A little treatment for the kitten, and some beatdown for Crane.
Where: Arkham
When: Recently!
Warnings/Rating: It's Crane. And there's violence.
Selina’s door, when she crossed, wasn’t Arkham. It was Ivy’s greenhouse when the key turned in the lock, and Selina walked through with the certainty that being kicked out of Gotham equalled being kicked out of Arkham. It’s what Damian had suggested, right? And, even if she didn’t admit it readily, the kitty cat trusted the little bird when it came to most things, including advanced knowledge of their current homeworld. She walked through, already reading Wren’s message about Damian and Wonder City, already starting to hiss at the prospect of that stupid little bird going there alone. But, no, as soon as the door closed behind her, she was in her cell at the asylum, and the kitty hissed with frustration as she brought the heel of her palm up against the door that locked her in.
The guards noticed the sound within seconds, and the Cat cursed her own impulsiveness. She never thought things through, not until after the fact, and she could have used the quiet to figure a way out for herself. But no, three guards came, and she took them out without much work, round kicks, and palms to their throats and knees to their groins. They were down within seconds, underestimating the Cat without her claws. But the alarm had been sounded, and she had just started to pull the cover off a vent when something got her from behind. Inky blackness, and when the kitty dragged open her eyes again she was back in Arkham orange, a straightjacket keeping her arms immobile. She looked around the room, a bigger one, unfamiliar, an operating chamber of some kind, and she groaned to herself.
Great. Just what the kitty cat needed. A private session with the craziest nut in the nuthouse. But her ankles weren’t shackled, and that counted for something. She stayed where she was, quiet on the metal gurney, her green eyes intentionally drifting closed again after a quick check on the time. The clock on the wall said she had hours to go before her kick back to Las Vegas. She could get through a few hours with the likes of Crane; she’d had worse.
Almost as though he had been signaled when her eyes fluttered open, Crane entered mere moments later. The door buzzed open, opening wide enough to admit that lanky doctor before closing once more with a buzz. There would be no leaving this room without permission, it seemed, and as he had little idea how long the woman had been on this side of the door, he was taking no chances. “Did you sleep well, dear?” Crane asked, watching her from some feet away from where she was stretched out on the gurney, his hands clasped behind him, stance comfortable. “I must admit, I was worried you would sleep through the entire thing, and I would have been oh so disappointed.”
The good doctor drifted closer, dragging a metal tray along with him, on which rested a multitude of instruments. Some were intended for use that afternoon, but others were just for show, bravado, to leave the kitten questioning what it was he had planned. “Tell me how you’re feeling, dear. I’m sure much better than myself with a healing gunshot wound. That was really quite rude of you, and someone needs to teach you not to listen to everything you’re told.” His words were light-hearted, almost patronizing, as though he were speaking to a young child than a grown woman. Long fingers curled around a hypodermic needle that was laying on the tray, an old-fashioned thing made of metal and glass, the needle gleaming in the clinical lights that shined over the theater.
Selina didn’t answer. She turned her face to the wall stubbornly, and she refused to look at him. The doctor could play all the games he wanted, but the kitty cat wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of responding, not as long as she could resist. Oh, she knew all about the terrible things that happened in the asylum. Everyone in Gotham did. She wasn’t expecting a comfortable stay, and she wasn’t expecting therapy that would help her get over her childhood traumas. She knew what to expect from Crane, despite the strong act she’d been putting on in Las Vegas. And, as much as she hated it, she was afraid she was going to need to pull that rescue card in the future, if she wanted to come back to Gotham at all.
The way Selina saw it, she would get the same few free minutes on her next trip in. A few minutes without the straightjacket, without Crane. She just needed to make it through this little “session” without losing her little kitty mind, and without anything happening to Damian before she could do anything about it. She could do that. She was determined to do that. She could hear Crane touching his toys, and she hoped that whatever he did would knock her out for the time she had left. Selina was no stranger to pain, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be awake for it either. Oh, and she still had that trump card - her free ankles. She smiled a little when he mentioned the healing gunshot wound, plump lips curving up in a satisfied grin. She’d gotten that, at least. He didn’t know who Damian was, which was another thing she could be proud of. She let her bright green eyes drift closed again, not giving him the pleasure of a response.
The lack of response didn’t seem to bother Crane in the slightest. Her words were not what he needed; it was her reactions that he was after, the aftermath that ended up tasting so delicious no matter what happened. So his silence joined hers as he loaded up the hypodermic with something clear from a vial that had been tucked in his jacket pocket. A quick test for air bubbles and then his fingers were on Selina, her position facing the wall making this simple as he rested fingertips against the side of her jaw. “You might feel a little pinprick,” he cautioned before the muscle relaxant was given to her, ice cold against the warmth of her skin.
Selina couldn’t avoid that pinprick, and the cool filled her with dread. Not having control, that wasn’t something the kitty cat wanted. It was something the kitty cat hated. It made her think of being young, of a death she couldn’t prevent, of a death she’d been too scared to prevent. She refused to be scared. She’d left that behind when she’d thrown off her humanity to become something that bit and clawed. She might go down, but not without a fight. She hissed, and she kicked out with untethered ankles and feet that found one of the doctor’s unguarded kidneys. The kick was perfectly aimed, thighs in an athlete's muscled shape beneath the orange of the scrubs. She shoved her feet against him after impact, and she slid down onto the floor, almost losing her footing as the fast-acting sedative began to kick in with a vengeance. The back of her head pounded from the take-down hit earlier, but she fought through it and managed to get to the door. If they sedated her entirely, at least she wouldn’t remember whatever Crane was going to do. She managed a groin kick to the guard at the door, even as she slid to brace herself against the doorframe. “Stupid Cat,” she muttered to herself, even as she began to run.
Of course she would try something, Crane thought to himself, even as she hissed in response and then kicked out at him. The pain in his flank was enough to distract him to allow for her (temporary) escape. “Guards!” he yelled out as he caught himself before he, too, fell, turning just in time to see her make her run, the guard at the door clutching his groin. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Crane muttered, and then he was after her, out through the door and grabbing up his mask on a shelf just outside her room. “Get this place on lock down. She doesn’t go further than this hallway, and I mean it. Anyone who messes up gets to help me test my new toxin come morning.” And then Crane was off after her, pulling on his mask as he moved, his smile hidden behind burlap and rubber, only his eyes visible from the ragged holes.
That in place, Crane turned his attention back to his prey, chasing after her. “Kitties should learn to behave~,” he called out down the hall, venom in his words.
Unfortunately for Selina, the muscle relaxant did her in. She managed to get one more orderly down, turning the needle in his hand against him and shoving it into his thigh with the limited motion of her slightly-loosened hand, but then her legs started to go unsteady and she tried to compensate by leaning heavily against the wall. It was all for naught because, in the end, there was little choice but to slide along the wall and lean her head back against it as she settled in an inelegant sprawl of straightjacket and orange, short black hair falling into her green eyes.
“Fuck you,” Selina called out when she heard Crane approaching. The reporter better really appreciate this. And she better get a free pass the next time she wanted to rob the wealthy people of Metropolis blind. “Next time, I’ll kill you,” she assured the approaching doctor, sorry she hadn’t done as Damian had instructed her to do.
Crane came upon her collapsed against the wall, the muscle relaxant doing its job in taking her down where the incompetent guards could not. “I’d rather not, but thank you for the invitation,” Crane responded as he folded his arms across his chest, head canted to the side as he took her in. “As for next time, you’re not going to get the chance. You’ve brought this upon yourself, Selina, I do hope you realise that.” A cluck of his tongue and a pair of orderlies approached with a rattling, metal gurney. They were taking no precautions this time around as they hauled her up and onto the gurney, a decided lack of gentleness in their movements. She was strapped down this time, torso and ankles, and Crane approached her only when he knew it was safe. Sedated or no, cats still had claws, and he had learned that the hard way. “You’re not going to win this game, my dear. I hope you realise that. It’ll be easier for you if you do.”
Selina tried to struggle, but it was useless this time around. Her muscles betrayed her, and she grit her teeth and stared up at the ceiling. As helpless as she was right then, she didn’t want to add closed eyes to the equation, and she intentionally kept her gaze fixed up, jaw tight and expression murderous. Her lips were closed tight, in case he wanted to get her talking with whatever he was going to give her. Because she knew he was going to give her something. She could deal with her fear gas. She’d had that before, and it hadn’t killed her. She’d tried to take out her Bat at the time, but that wasn’t a risk now, not strapped down like she was. Still, she said nothing. She counted in her mind, and she ticked off the things she was going to do to him once she had the tables turned.
Crane was silent as they moved back to the holding cell, and as they were locked in it together once more, he turned away, readying something else, the tray of instruments from earlier forgotten in lieu of something more hideous that was positioned just to her side, within sight if she cared to look. The machine was intimidating, shining metal and heavy cords, something out of a horror movie. Arkham was varied in their specialised ‘treatments’, but high tech they were not. “Have you ever heard of ECT, Selina?” Crane asked as he gave her his back, fiddling with this and that on the unit before pulling out two electrode pads and holding them up for her to see. He still wore his mask, his voice muffled because of it. “It’s often used in treating depression, has shown to be a help in that. But I wonder how it might help people like you.” He smiled behind the mask, and with one hand, fingers skeletal thin, he brushed a bit of hair away from her forehead, his touch almost gentle.
Selina hadn’t had the benefit of an education, and she had no idea what he was talking about, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, she kept her gaze averted from whatever horrible thing he was tinkering with, and she didn’t ask what the initials - ECT - stood for. Something told her she really didn’t want to know. She tested the restraints, perfectly aware that she wouldn’t be able to get off the table, even if she managed to get free of the binding straps, but unwilling to just lie there without trying. It wasn’t in the kitty cat to just give in, and she wasn’t about to do it in front of Scarecrow. She didn’t flinch when he pushed the hair away from her forehead. Rather, she turned turned and spit up in his face. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and she grinned after, smug with that tiny defiance. “You’re not going to get away with this,” she finally said, figuring one sentence wouldn’t hurt - especially not that sentence.
If her spitting on him ruffled Crane at all, he made no sign of it. Instead, he wiped the saliva from his mask and onto her cheek instead, giving her cheek a pat before the electrodes were attached, one on each side of her forehead, the sticky pads clinging to skin, adhering securely. “I think I’ve already gotten away with it, dear,” Crane said as he stepped away, moving back to his monstrous machine as he fiddled with a few settings. “ECT. In layman’s terms, electroshock therapy. Some people think it’s rather horrible, but I’ve heard good things about it. You’re the first person I’ve ever used it on, I must admit, so I’m flying blind here.” A switch was flicked and the machine powered up, a soft hum filling the air. His voice went clinical as he described what it was he was doing. “A shock to the patient to try and induce a seizure producing unconsciousness. Some people apparently find it euphoric. Or perhaps they just believe it so due to the memory loss often associated with this therapy. You’ll have to let me know how you feel afterwards.” There was another touch to her face, just the tips of his fingertips before he pulled back fully, and threw the switch.
Selina wasn’t sure what to expect, and she tried not to think about that as he attached the electrodes. She didn’t give him the pleasure of letting him see anything like fear on her face. Instead, she carefully schooled her expression to go from intense hate to complete boredom. She reminded herself that she’d lived through worse that whatever he was going to do. He wouldn’t let her die; Ivy had promised her that, and even she wouldn’t cross a certain like with Ivy. At least he wasn’t asking questions, which would have been so much worse. She was thankful for that, and it was the last thought she had before he flipped the switch, having tuned out most of his explanation in anticipation of whatever was about to come.
Whatever Selina was expecting, however, it wasn’t this. She heard the screaming before she realized it was coming from her, and it took her a moment longer to realize why. The feeling of suffocation, despite the muscle relaxants was overwhelming, and it was all she could do not to beg as the seizures began. At least she couldn’t think, which was something, because there wasn’t any real fear. Just a horrible kind of all encompassing terror that mingled with the pain that wouldn’t abate, her voice going hoarse with this screaming.
The shock lasted less than ten seconds before Crane killed the juice, the sound of her screams echoing in the room long after she had silenced. Eyes narrowed behind his burlap mask as he turned towards her, a sort of excitement enveloping him for her reaction. “Are you still in there, kitten?” Crane asked in a sort of sing-song voice, approaching her with tip-toed steps, a hand reaching out to touch her cheek, a caress that held no real love or affection.
Gaining entrance to Arkham was no trouble at all for the Bat. As he’d told Lois and Superman, he knew the institution very well; all the little ins and outs that few were even aware existed, some constructed by his own hand, as well as the security system which seemed primarily intended to keep others from getting in considering the number of breakouts over the years. While he was quite adept at making an entrance, there were times when subtlety paid off. This was one of them.
The Bat never once questioned himself, not in this. Selina did not belong in Arkham, especially not with Crane in charge, and it was poor judgment that had led him to agree to her foolish plan in the first place. He had his priorities, and while Damian and the Owls ranked at the top of that list, he felt frustratingly helpless in that regard (having no idea that Damian had gone to Wonder City on his own), and he knew it was better to act sooner rather than later in regards to getting Selina out of Arkham. Too much wasted time would give Crane ample opportunity to do his worst. He parked the Tumbler out of sight and entered from above, through the ventilation system, taking care to avoid the routes where his weight wouldn’t be supported. The last thing he wanted was to crash through the ceiling-- unless, of course, it was intentional. His only disadvantage was that he wasn’t sure where Selina was being kept, but that was easily rectified. Instead of wasting time interrogating each and every guard and orderly wandering the halls, as much as he might have liked to, the Bat went straight to the top. The head of Arkham’s security likely thought himself safe, contained in his office, and the man likely wasn’t expecting to be slammed against his desk by a strong hand before he had time to react. The blow left him stunned, but still conscious, and he fought in vain as the Bat dragged him across the room to the far wall. He kept the man pinned by his throat, applying enough pressure to make him panic, to hint at a lack of air, without making it impossible for him to speak.
“Where is Catwoman?” When the man took too long to respond, fear mixing with defiance in his eyes, the Bat simply increased the pressure until he was struggling for air before relaxing his grip. “I’ll only ask you once more,” he growled. “Where. Is. Catwoman?” This time, he was wiser, and choked out a reply that was swiftly followed by a plea for mercy. Which, depending on one’s definition, he received a moment later, and the Bat left him in an unconscious heap on the floor. From there, the Bat bypassed sneaking around in the ventilation system for a more direct approach. He prowled the halls as though he owned them, barrelling through those foolish enough to attempt to stand in his way. Normally, he was a force, but this had become personal now, which made him so much more dangerous than he usually was. Most of the staff turned and ran in the other direction when they saw him, though a few orderlies attempted to slow him down, and by the time he reached the holding cell he’d been shot at five times and been tasered at least twice. He was still standing, however, while those who stood against him had been left behind in various states of consciousness, most with broken bones. One guard who’d had the audacity to make a comment about Catwoman that he didn’t like would likely need his jaw wired shut for months before it would heal properly, if it ever did.
The doors were locked, but that wasn’t nearly enough to deter the Bat. After taking care of the ones guarding the cell, he only paused long enough to slip on a small gas mask, one he’d fashioned himself, for he was no fool; he knew Crane was in there, and he wasn’t going to fall victim to any of the man’s tricks. Then he was working on the lock, and a muffled bang would have been audible on the other side of the doors before he burst through, a whirl of black and steely rage that seemed to fill the room.
Time seemed to stop as he stood, taking in the scene before him, eyes nearly black with fury behind the cowl. The Bat moved swiftly, and he did not hesitate; two seconds and he’d barred the door shut from the inside, another second before he made a beeline for Crane and, quite literally, threw him against the tray which held his instruments of torture.
Selina was still coming down from those ten seconds that seemed to last an eternity. The Cat was having trouble remembering where she was (an effect of the ECT), how she’d gotten there, and there was only the lingering seizures and the memory of excruciating pain, all of it too strong for her to even notice the burlap-covered man bent over her, stroking her damp cheek. She parted her lips to respond, the inside of her mouth bloodied from a sharp bite to her tongue, but the crash took the looming figure away, and she was in no shape to understand what was going in the room, even if she could turn her head to see what was happening.
There was little time to react to what was going on. A muffled sound from the other side of the door, and then the rat with wings was standing there. Crane had a moment to appreciate the silhouette before he he was barreled into with enough force that he couldn’t even think to guard or retaliate against him. His back hit the tray of instruments with a loud crash, sending needles and other metal instruments skittering across the tiled floor, and then Crane was down, legs sprawled and arms spread to brace himself with the fall. Even through the narrow eye holes of the burlap mask, there was no mistaking his guest that evening. “The Bat man,” Crane cooed at him before he grabbed the metal tray that the instruments had been laying on, swinging it out and around towards the Bat before he turned onto his hands and knees and attempted to scramble away, grabbing up this item and that on his way, struggling to load up another needle as quickly as he could.
While the armor may have slowed him down in some circumstances, there were others, like this one, which starkly highlighted his motivations behind wearing it as opposed to something more lightweight at the expense of protection. The Bat barely faltered in his stride, batting the metal tray away as easily as he would a fly, something insignificant and, overall, irritating at best. He was not afraid of this man or his mask, and he knew that without his gas, he would prove to be no match for him. Whatever Jonathan Crane was, he was not a fighter. Cowards never were. He saw the needle, and while it was almost laughable that he was intending to use it when his skin was beneath layers of kevlar, now the sight only served to infuriate him further. Aside from Selina being hooked up to some sort of horrific machine, Crane had fear gassed his son, and even though he hadn’t been aware of it at the time it would prove to have been a very, very bad idea. It was easy to catch up with him, crawling as he was, and he brought one foot down on his back with unmerciful force, stooping down a second later to close a hand around the wrist that held the needle. He said nothing-- the sharp crack of bone breaking spoke for him.
It wasn’t that Jonathan Crane was a coward, because the thought of being labeled that made him want to laugh, it was simply that he didn’t place much worth in physical strength. He fought with ideas and words, not his fists; physical fights were reserved for those who could do nothing else, just like the man who barged into the cell. His escape did not last long, though, and it was these kind of moments that he could recognize the usefulness of some sort of physical prowess. That was hardly for here, however, and as the foot came down on his back and pressed him flat to the ground, Crane let out a growl of annoyance. His wrist was twisted, squeezed, and his fingers went numb with the flash of pain that ran through him as the bones were snapped like so many thin twigs. But never let it be said that Crane gave up. For even now, in the position he was in, he fought back.
Crane’s crawl had brought him closer to the gurney Selina lay on, and with his good hand, he reached out to give the gurney a hard shove and pull. The contraption was old, held together with spit and bubblegum, so it was no surprise when it toppled over, towards them, and Crane wasted no time in winding an arm around the half-conscious woman and pulling her bound form towards him, gurney and all with how she had been restrained. His fingers pressed against the thin column of her neck, his eyes flashing behind the burlap mask. “I’ll make sure the cat never makes another sound if you touch me again,” he hissed out, and while he had no idea if he actually could, threats were his weapon right now in the face of the winged rodent.
Selina was barely conscious, her mind still fighting the temporary nothing of the ECT. In fact, the kitty cat didn’t know she was right then, where she was, or why her legs were useless and her arms heavy. But there was something to be said for survival, and survival said the man with his fingers at her neck could do as he threatened. Between the drugs in her system and the belts binding her, she would only be a liability if she tried to break free. She dragged open bright green eyes that were clearly disoriented, and though she didn’t recognize the creature in black, she did have a strong feeling that he was there to help. She stayed calm, no scream and no struggle, despite the threat of death pressing against her throat. Instead, she tried to remember what she was forgetting, because that was all she really had control over. That, and trying to get her neck muscles going again, in case she needed to take a bite out of the bastard that was holding her. His face, she thought, she could reach his face if she could get past that burlap. It was something to aspire to.
The Bat had only just begun, and a broken wrist was a far cry from being the worst he could do while refraining from crossing the line, his one rule, upon which he would not compromise. Perhaps he’d underestimated Crane, however, as the gurney crashing to the ground had not factored into his plans. He realized what the other man’s intentions were, but too late, too slow, and he came to a sharp halt when the other man’s fingers found their way to Selina’s throat. If there was ever a time when he felt capable of murder, this was it, and the shadow of Luke’s consciousness certainly didn’t help, so very much like Jason in his justification. He didn’t expect Selina to be able to break free; in fact, he had factored her out of the equation entirely in terms of an able body. His jaw tightened, and his gaze never left Crane as he stood, motionless, every muscle tensed as he waited for an opening. “Let her go,” he said, and it was a demand, one he would not be denied. “The longer you refuse, the worse the consequences will be.” The Bat’s weapons extended beyond his fists, which Crane should have recalled, and it would take him little more than a second to reach for his choice from a wide array of weaponry and technology in his utility belt to force Crane’s hand. Perhaps he might try one of his new devices, tiny little things that resembled metal buttons and emitted electric shocks when activated. It would be fitting, considering the nature of the machine Selina had been hooked up to.
If the threat frightened or cowed Crane, it was impossible to tell as those long fingers, skeletal and bone-thin, dug into Selina’s throat, fingernails cutting half-moons in pale skin, blood welling and staining where it ran. “Then I might as well make this very much worth it,” Crane said, and the words were a lick of coldness in the room before his grip shifted, pushing the woman’s chin back at an uncomfortable angle, his eyes narrowed slightly behind his burlap mask. “Do you think you can get to me before I break her neck?” Crane asked, voice a whisper as he leaned in close to her, cheek to cheek, his fingers white with the pressure he exerted on her. Death would be inconvenient, and he didn’t think he would ever push the rodent to that point. No, he would leave him alive, possibly behind bars, but alive nonetheless. He still had Alexander on the other side of the door to do his bidding, and he would take every bit of advantage he could gain with that.
But for now, it was time to show the Bat man what he had hidden up his sleeve.
The gas seeped out from Crane’s sleeve, triggered in some way that was not immediately visible. And with his hand so close to Selina’s face, there was no escaping the full dosage for the kitty cat. His rebreather built into the burlap mask saved him, and an laugh echoed in the room before he dropped the cat to the ground. The Bat would have to make a decision. Save Selina. Or pursue the Scarecrow. He couldn’t and wouldn’t be allowed both bits of fun.
Crane was dangerously close to landing himself in a full body cast for the foreseeable future with each passing second, and when the blood welled forth the Bat took an aborted step forward, all uncontrollable impulse, as his expression became thunderous behind the cowl. He knew remaining still was no longer an option, and he prepared to act, calculating where to aim and how quickly he would need to move before Crane could follow through on his threat. Selina wasn’t capable of resisting, which made the situation all the more infuriating, because she wasn’t the sort of person who was meant to be helpless. “Yes,” he said, grim determination, and he was mere seconds away from taking action when the gas was triggered. Oh, he wasn’t surprised, as this was Crane, but he hadn’t seen it coming. Not now, not yet. He should have.
The Bat went for Selina, being who he was, incapable of sacrificing a life for the sake of taking Crane down. He did not like having his choices made for him, however, and he refused to be forced into a corner by a madman. The gas did not affect him, since he’d had the foresight to prepare for it, and as Crane attempted to make his escape the Bat slid what looked like a miniature hybrid of a gun and a crossbow and aimed it at the man’s form. One, two, three, small bits of clawed metal that dug into skin and fabric alike and, after a few seconds, delivered a carefully measured series of shocks that would stop the Scarecrow in his tracks. A taste of his own medicine, perhaps, to be rendered as helpless as his victims. The effect was temporary, but that was all the time he needed.
It was a hard lesson to learn, that the Bat played by no one’s rules but his own.
“Selina.” He crouched down to her level, studying her for a moment before hauling her to her feet with little effort and using his body to support her. His destination beyond Arkham was clear, and his escape route was already planned, but the Bat wasn’t quite done with Crane just yet.
Selina, while glad to be free of the restraints, had sucked in too much of that gas not to see everything in the room turning into nightmares. The gurney was the bed her sister had died on, and the medical tools were guns, and the Bat was Bone, and she shoved at him with muscles that still weren’t responding right. Even with the short-term memory kick, she knew something was wrong, and she tried to fight through it as best she could. She closed her eyes, the moment of black giving her just a moment of reprieve from the horrors she was seeing. It helped, too, that she’d already been gassed before, that she’d already experienced the confusion of seeing things that weren’t there. Her Bat had tied her up then, left her to go after Crane when it happened, and that memory helped a little. “Go,” she managed. “I’ll get out.” Because free from the gurney, she could. It would take work, but she’d manage it, and if she didn’t, well, she knew he’d come back. “Don’t let him-” She cut herself off, and she shoved away all that black kevlar and weight. “Go.” Because she was going to start trying to claw at him if he stood there much longer, straightjacket or no straightjacket. “Crane.”
For a moment, there was victory dancing on his tongue, sweet, perfect, and Crane had won. But it lasted only a handful of seconds before things came crashing down around him, shattering into a million pieces as the barbs of metal took hold of his clothing, kissing the skin beneath, and then, in a heartbeat, Jonathan Crane was on his knees. Muscles convulsed, uncontrolled by him, and it took everything he could just to fight through the haze that had come over his thoughts to concentrate on what was happening.
“If you think that can take me down,” Crane ground out as he pulled himself to his feet, the effort draining, his muscles still twitching with the residual shocks that coursed through his system. “Then you’ve got another thing coming.” Big words for someone who was having problems staying on his feet. “That much in her system and she’ll be frothing at the mouth soon enough,” he said, his stance steadying though he was hardly stable at that point. “Go on. Go with her. Be the hero that you think you are.”
The Bat was undeterred by her shoves, though he recognized that they were merely a precursor to what would come next, as the effects of the fear gas worsened, and he might have simply left with her at the expense of allowing Crane to slip by relatively unscathed if Selina hadn’t protested. He hesitated, uncertain of her ability to get out on her own, and he looked down at her with a frown. “You were hit with a full dose. I need to get you out.” His words overlapped with Crane’s taunts, however, and his internal struggle was physically evident before he made his decision. He couldn’t let this be another missed opportunity. He couldn’t let Crane win, not again. “I’ll come back,” he promised, unaware that he was echoing what she already knew he would do, and after another second released his hold on her and stepped back.
Oh, the Bat knew he was no hero, and he turned on Crane with a dangerous, almost eerie sort of calm. “I told you I would put you back in a cell,” he said. Now the time had come for the Bat to make good on his threat. He moved fairly swiftly despite the armor, and he was upon Crane in an instant, a blur of black and kevlar as he let his fists fall with just enough restraint to ensure none of the blows were fatal. Then he was unbarring the door and dragging him through the halls with no regard for whatever pain he might be in. If those in charge of Arkham knew what was good for them, they would keep Crane in a cell rather than give him another office and false title to do with as he wished.
The moment between them was almost cute, but Crane hardly had time to ponder on that while trying to make his legs behave, to stop that trembling that had become a problem since that nasty shock from the toys in the bat’s belt. “Since when have I ever benefited from believing everything people tell me,” Crane managed to get out before the Bat was on him, forcing him to the floor with the instruments that had fallen. A grunt of pain and he managed to get a fallen scalpel in his hand, trying to use that against the other in retaliation. It did little good though, and soon he was being dragged through the halls of his very own asylum, twisting and struggling in the grip that was upon his ankle. “You can’t keep me in a cell,” he shot at him, letting out a laugh. “I’ll get out, just like I did last time! You can’t beat me, Bat man. You can try but you can’t and we all know that!”
The scalpel left a nick in the Bat’s armor, easily repairable and barely noticeable. A knife might have done more damage had Crane known where his weak spots were, but the Bat wouldn’t have given him the chance regardless. Occasionally they came across unconscious guards and orderlies, some just beginning to stir, and while the inmates shouted and jeered from behind bars and metal doors they were otherwise left undisturbed. Perhaps those who worked within the Asylum could be taught after all. He remained silent, refusing to give Crane the pleasure of a response, and once he reached the high security ward he brought the man being dragged in his wake to a harsh stop that was punctuated with another snap of bones breaking, this time his ankle. It was louder, and required more force, but the Bat made it appear effortless.
“It’s over, Crane.” However the Bat managed to open the time-locked door was not seen, but manage it he did, and he grasped the front of the other man’s shirt, only pausing long enough to pull that ridiculous mask over his head before shoving him inside the cell. The door slid shut, internal locking mechanisms and deadbolts clicking into place, and with that done the Bat set off in search of Selina. He’d spent enough time on Crane, and it wouldn’t do to dwell on the debate between leaving him alive and ending it for good.
True to Crane’s threat, Selina had received an entire dose of the fear gas, and by the time the Bat returned to the room she was no longer there. A number of turned over tables and two incapacitated guards led to her with a fair amount of ease, a scalpel dug low and deep in one one man’s leg, a hypodermic shoved in the other’s thigh, the proximity to the ground an indication that her muscle control was still being affected by the relaxant Crane had given her before starting the ECT. It couldn’t be said that the kitty cat didn’t try.
Unfortunately, by the time Selina had reached the unlocked door that she was going to try to crawl through back to Las Vegas, the gas reached full effect, and she was huddled against the corner, one hand free of the straightjacket, body convulsing and eyes rolled back in her head, the combination of the gas and the ECT too much for her system to combat. It was, possibly, a blessing that she hadn’t made it back through the door in that condition. Gotham was safer for somethings, and this was one of them. Still, she knew, somewhere in the back of her fear driven mind, that she needed to get out of Arkham, or she’d just end up back here again the next time she crossed.
The scene waiting for the Bat when he returned was like a map, telling a story without words, and after taking a few precious seconds to ensure the two guards were alive he shifted his attention elsewhere, to Selina, who was convulsing in a corner and immediately became his top concern. He was at her side in an instant, a flurry of cape and black, gently easing her on to the ground even as her body writhed and jerked beneath his hands. “Selina,” he said, finding some comfort in saying her name, and he did his best to keep her relaxed while he waited the fit out, because he wasn’t taking her anywhere like this. “I’m here. You’re going to be fine.” He didn’t have nearly enough antidote on him to reverse the effects, and he couldn’t waste time searching the Asylum for something that might counteract them. Waiting had never been the Bat’s strong suit, however, and when his patience ran out he simply lifted her in his arms and left the holding cell, heading for the side entrance, closest to where he knew the Tumbler was parked. Time was something he didn’t have a lot of, but he had what he needed back at the cave and fortunately Batman didn’t need to obey trivial things such as the laws of traffic.
The Bat’s anger, almost tangible in the air around them, just had Crane laughing. Even as his ankle was broken with such ferocity, he laughed. Breaking bones was not akin to breaking him, and he was highly amused that the rodent seemed to think so. With the cell closing, the lock engaging, Crane sat down heavily in the corner of the empty cell. His ankle was already swelling, his wrist aching, and without his mask, he was simply a man with tears in his eyes and red in his cheeks from laughing at the Bat. “You haven’t won this game,” he shouted out to him as he took his leave. “Not even close!”