|Doctor Jonathan Crane (i_fear) wrote in we_coexist,|
@ 2013-12-21 15:34:00
|Entry tags:||jonathan crane, zz:status complete|
Ichabod's Ride (Narrative)
Scarecrow was hurting.
Jonathan tried, he truly did, but there was only so much could do to soothe his other, and he knew of only one true release to the figment’s pain.
He just didn’t want to allow it. Jonathan was desperately trying to keep things in check, to keep his life in check. He liked having Arkham and being in control, he liked being free. Yes, Blackgate was a joke and he could get out easily, but in doing so he would lose everything else he had.
But Scarecrow was still hurting and he was going to explode if Jonathan didn’t do something soon.
Scarecrow stood in front of the mannequin that held his costume, running a hand lovingly over the worn, oiled leather, before he started stripping, shedding the outer illusion of a good doctor, carefully pulling on the padded shorts that were required for a life such as his, before stripping the mannequin, slowly, as carefully as one would a lover, wiggling into the outfit that felt like his true skin.
He latched the last golden frog on his doublet, gently tugging it down before grinning, the smell of the leather, the oils...the hayseed scent that still clung to the fabric...all of it was home to him.
He turned away from the manikin, moving over to his wall of weapons, selecting one of the scythes on the wall, testing the blade before strapping it into the plastic holder on his back, testing the release of it to be sure he could obtain it easily. He slid two sickles into their holsters on his thighs, giving his legs a shake to make sure they were properly seated.
Dressed now, he turned towards the mirror, brushing his thick brown (now turning reddish as Jonathan forgot to dye it), hair back, slipping his mask over his head, stitched mouth stretching over his lips, air flowing easily between the gaps and into the filter behind...not that he needed it anymore. Jonathan was nearly immune to the toxin and it hasn’t affected Scarecrow in a long while. He grabbed his large, floppy hat, placing it over his head, pulling the brim down a bit to shadow his eyes. Next came the gloves. Liquid fear toxin filled the needles of his gauntlet, his other hand covered by a fingerless gloves set designed for horseback riding.
“Sweet little Sin consumed by flames at seven, better to forever serve in hell, than grow up and play in heaven.” he sung, strapping a bag of fear toxin bombs onto his belt before leaving the office.
Nightmare whinnied, charging down the streets of the City at her master’s urging, easily moving through the clouds of fear toxin and the panicking Christmas crowds. Above the screaming chaos, Scarecrow’s laughter floated, blood coating his chest and Nightmare’s sides. He gave his scythe another twirl, swinging it down, another head falling.
This wasn’t research, it wasn’t a study on how fear impacted stressed out psyches...it was death and destruction for the sheer pleasure of it. Scarecrow was hurting...and so he lashed out, making the City hurt with him.
He ignored the woman screaming for mercy, slashing at her face with his needles, giggling as she started screaming about the rats climbing over her body.
The fear toxin clouds were starting to affect the citizens, increasing their panic, their terror. It was getting too thick for Nightmare and Scarecrow slid off the horse, giving her a slap on the rump to send her back to Arkham. Instead, he pulled his sickles from their holders, lashing out, easily moving through the motions of a long forgotten dance as his victims fell before him, several holding bleeding gashes that weren’t fatal, but would cause permanent injury to them.