Fic: The Daemon Within (Scarecrow): Chapter 1: An Uninvited Guest
Chapter 1: An Uninvited Guest
This was by far his favorite hideout yet. It was remote and located in the middle of a large hayfield. The remoteness was simply a convenience really. It meant his work was able to move forward without too much interference, either Bat related or otherwise. The hayfield - well, that was just a nice accessory to his namesake. Something about a dilapidated shack in the middle of a giant hayfield just made him giddy. He made a path around the building before going in the front door; it was a habit of his to thoroughly check out the perimeter of each of his locations. He couldn’t guess how many times he’d come across some pathetic robber or random homeless people trying to claim his property. Honestly, didn’t they understand there was a pecking order in Gotham City?
Once he made certain the property was safe, he pushed open the wooden door. The room was completely devoid of light thanks to the plywood planks he’d put up over the windows when he first moved in. He wanted to be absolutely certain not to raise suspicion, even though it meant he’d have to fumble his way across the room whenever he returned from his late night exploits. Familiarizing himself with the layout took some time, but after a few weeks he knew enough to no longer ram his knee into the corner table or trip over a box of chemicals; the worst part was scrambling around afterwards to verify all the toxic ones were safely sealed and upright. Even a brilliant chemical mastermind was prone to occasional clumsiness. It was practically a physical requirement of the title.
He pulled the newspaper out that he’d shoved under his arm and dropped the crumpled thing onto his desk. Well, it wasn’t exactly what he would deem a desk, but he would have to pretend at least for a little longer. The chair creaked as he sat down, mindless of his lithe build, and he fingered the dangling light switch for a moment before the green light from the lamp’s cover filled the tiny shack. He’d stolen it from the University oh so long ago, but he still felt it added a certain sophistication to his otherwise dreary surroundings.
With a tug, the linen mask came off and he sighed appreciatively at feeling the cool night air against his damp face. One of these days he was going to insert some type of cooling mechanism inside to prevent the trickles of sweat. He laid the mask down next to the recently acquired newspaper, and then did a double take at the headline.
POLICE IDENTIFY BITE MARKS ON 3 VICTIMS
Crane arched an eyebrow, and flattened out the slightly damp paper to read the details. Apparently there was some kind of wild creature out slaughtering Gothamites in the dead of night. While typically he would completely endorse the latest mask to make his or her mark in Gotham, Crane did have his limits. He examined the grainy black and white photos as best he could from the horrible printing, but the damage was a bit more than “bite marks.” Unlike most cities, Gotham was known for playing down its vicious news instead of sensationalizing it.
He stretched and went over to his duffle bag to change clothes, but his mind was still ruminating over the pictures he’d seen. Crane had performed numerous autopsies during his time as a medical intern, and even these days he sometimes did them after exposing a victim to his latest batch of fear toxin. The brain was always Crane’s examination goal, and the body itself was usually well intact. These bodies however were gutted, the entire stomach cavity completely cleaned out, with parts of the intestines still hanging over the edges like a hurriedly opened gift. The creature was doing more than biting its victims - he was eating them.
The ferocity of the damage really had him shaken though. No insane dog or vicious cat could do that; and even bears and wolves weren’t that thorough. No, the more Crane tried to pin the actions on an animal, the more he knew he was off track. This was something with far greater intelligence than some hungry woodland creature.
Killer Croc was the next suspect that popped into his mind. He was certainly prone to eating people, but he’d only eaten parts of his victims. Much like the canines and felines that roamed the city, Croc would maybe gnaw on an arm or bite off a foot, but never purposeful evisceration. He was a cannibal certainly, but Crane couldn’t recall him ever devouring the innards. Perhaps a new mask then? Gotham was certainly getting crowded. He sighed dumping a cold bottle of water into his hands and rubbing down his face. It was a damnably hot evening.
He pulled out his rugged copy of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and dropped down into his sleeping bag. He’d just finished the section where Eleanor spends a frightful night in the old abandoned house, which was coincidentally one of his favorite scenes from the book, when he heard a noise outside. They were heavy sounds, several of them, as though something was walking across the dirt pathway in front of the shack. Crane’s logical mind tried to stay cool as the images from the newspaper started springing unbidden to his mind. Whatever it was, he finally decided, it was large enough to make noise as it stalked; therefore, it was probably large enough to react to fear toxin.
Crane closed the book and grabbed his canister off the nearby chest he used as a night stand. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. Had someone followed him here? He slipped the outfit on again over his bare shoulders, and shivered a bit as he pulled on the mask. Not from the chill of the moisture within, but out of the anticipation. It likely wasn’t the Bat - if he was here there’d be no way Crane would have been warned. Meaning it was probably some intruder who had made a very bad decision to cut through this particular hay field. With a click he turned out the light and creaked open the door.
The cool night air was refreshing and across from him was nothing except waves and waves of rolling hay beneath starry skies. But he trusted his instincts. He pulled back into a shadowy corner of the front porch and waited, his watchful eyes searching for any hint of the intruder. Minutes passed, and the wind died down. The hay field grew still, and in the distance the familiar sound of crickets and frogs were silent. Crane waited, barely noticing his trembling hands and now questioning his instincts to return inside. He could handle this. He clutched his fingers around the compressed gas can as he waited.
The roar that broke the silence was not at all what he’d expected. Something large had crashed into the back of his shack, near his sleeping bag was if he heard right. His heart was pounding as grunts and snarls emerged from within. Crane took a few steps away from the shack, knowing full well that he should run. The creature was bashing around his room, knocking bottles and chemicals around in its wake. Crane turned suddenly and started running; but upon moving at full speed, he heard the snarls subside from behind. A pit in his belly formed as he realized that the thing had heard him.
He pushed his legs faster, splitting through the tall hay as quickly as he could. From behind him he could hear the heavy trampling of the creature moving ever closer. Crane leapt over an old decrepit fence and kept moving, not daring to look back. A mere few paces behind, he heard a break in the creature’s gait: it had leapt the fence as well. Only it took a lot longer for it to hit the ground and Crane began to realize that he wasn’t going to outrun this beast. His lungs were burning and he knew his pace couldn’t last forever. So he stopped suddenly, and turned hoping to catch the creature right in the face.
But as he spun around, his finger already depressing the trigger of the canister in his hand, the hairy beast’s head was far higher - not to mention closer - than he’d anticipated. It pulled its arm down and shouldered him hard. Crane flew through the air and hit the unsympathetic hay with a heavy thud, a burst of pain and heat firing up from his shoulder. He didn’t have long. The beast halted and he knew it was airborne; he turned his eyes toward the sky and saw the creature almost in slow motion, its large muscular shoulders covered in dark grey fur against the orange Harvest Moon above. Its face was keenly wolfish and two clawed arms were outstretched towards him as murder weapon of choice.
Crane’s hand moved much faster than he remembered telling it to, but suddenly the gas canister was between them, dividing him from the falling wolf creature. Its mouth was open wide, showing all two rows of pointed teeth, and Crane released the trigger. A large puff of green gassy liquid filled the creature’s face, and half of the stream went straight into its mouth. Crane smiled as the beast suddenly brought its arms up to its face in confusion, giving him just enough room to roll out of the way as the creature landed where he’d just been.
Pulling himself slowly to his hands and knees, Crane started crawling away from the beast. It was hacking and whimpering behind him, and he smiled to himself. His fear toxin really was quite a wonderful invention. Then a searing pain flashed up his left calf and Crane screamed against it, the tears stinging his eyes as the thing pulled him backwards. He looked over his shoulder to see its jaw locked on his leg, the long streams of blood gushing out of the wound; the beast, though dazed, had dug both clawed hands into the earth to keep leverage.
Crane squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, and flung his arm over his shoulder, shooting another stream out into the beast’s gleaming yellow eyes. It roared in shock, released its bite, and Crane was on his feet again running away as fast as his legs would carry him. The roar behind him turned into blood curdling shrieks as the fear effect finally kicked in, and Crane wondered not for the first time tonight why he ever incorporated a delay in the fear gas.
Back to the chapter listing
This was by far his favorite hideout yet. It was remote and located in the middle of a large hayfield. The remoteness was simply a convenience really. It meant his work was able to move forward without too much interference, either Bat related or otherwise. The hayfield - well, that was just a nice accessory to his namesake. Something about a dilapidated shack in the middle of a giant hayfield just made him giddy. He made a path around the building before going in the front door; it was a habit of his to thoroughly check out the perimeter of each of his locations. He couldn’t guess how many times he’d come across some pathetic robber or random homeless people trying to claim his property. Honestly, didn’t they understand there was a pecking order in Gotham City?
Once he made certain the property was safe, he pushed open the wooden door. The room was completely devoid of light thanks to the plywood planks he’d put up over the windows when he first moved in. He wanted to be absolutely certain not to raise suspicion, even though it meant he’d have to fumble his way across the room whenever he returned from his late night exploits. Familiarizing himself with the layout took some time, but after a few weeks he knew enough to no longer ram his knee into the corner table or trip over a box of chemicals; the worst part was scrambling around afterwards to verify all the toxic ones were safely sealed and upright. Even a brilliant chemical mastermind was prone to occasional clumsiness. It was practically a physical requirement of the title.
He pulled the newspaper out that he’d shoved under his arm and dropped the crumpled thing onto his desk. Well, it wasn’t exactly what he would deem a desk, but he would have to pretend at least for a little longer. The chair creaked as he sat down, mindless of his lithe build, and he fingered the dangling light switch for a moment before the green light from the lamp’s cover filled the tiny shack. He’d stolen it from the University oh so long ago, but he still felt it added a certain sophistication to his otherwise dreary surroundings.
With a tug, the linen mask came off and he sighed appreciatively at feeling the cool night air against his damp face. One of these days he was going to insert some type of cooling mechanism inside to prevent the trickles of sweat. He laid the mask down next to the recently acquired newspaper, and then did a double take at the headline.
POLICE IDENTIFY BITE MARKS ON 3 VICTIMS
Crane arched an eyebrow, and flattened out the slightly damp paper to read the details. Apparently there was some kind of wild creature out slaughtering Gothamites in the dead of night. While typically he would completely endorse the latest mask to make his or her mark in Gotham, Crane did have his limits. He examined the grainy black and white photos as best he could from the horrible printing, but the damage was a bit more than “bite marks.” Unlike most cities, Gotham was known for playing down its vicious news instead of sensationalizing it.
He stretched and went over to his duffle bag to change clothes, but his mind was still ruminating over the pictures he’d seen. Crane had performed numerous autopsies during his time as a medical intern, and even these days he sometimes did them after exposing a victim to his latest batch of fear toxin. The brain was always Crane’s examination goal, and the body itself was usually well intact. These bodies however were gutted, the entire stomach cavity completely cleaned out, with parts of the intestines still hanging over the edges like a hurriedly opened gift. The creature was doing more than biting its victims - he was eating them.
The ferocity of the damage really had him shaken though. No insane dog or vicious cat could do that; and even bears and wolves weren’t that thorough. No, the more Crane tried to pin the actions on an animal, the more he knew he was off track. This was something with far greater intelligence than some hungry woodland creature.
Killer Croc was the next suspect that popped into his mind. He was certainly prone to eating people, but he’d only eaten parts of his victims. Much like the canines and felines that roamed the city, Croc would maybe gnaw on an arm or bite off a foot, but never purposeful evisceration. He was a cannibal certainly, but Crane couldn’t recall him ever devouring the innards. Perhaps a new mask then? Gotham was certainly getting crowded. He sighed dumping a cold bottle of water into his hands and rubbing down his face. It was a damnably hot evening.
He pulled out his rugged copy of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and dropped down into his sleeping bag. He’d just finished the section where Eleanor spends a frightful night in the old abandoned house, which was coincidentally one of his favorite scenes from the book, when he heard a noise outside. They were heavy sounds, several of them, as though something was walking across the dirt pathway in front of the shack. Crane’s logical mind tried to stay cool as the images from the newspaper started springing unbidden to his mind. Whatever it was, he finally decided, it was large enough to make noise as it stalked; therefore, it was probably large enough to react to fear toxin.
Crane closed the book and grabbed his canister off the nearby chest he used as a night stand. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. Had someone followed him here? He slipped the outfit on again over his bare shoulders, and shivered a bit as he pulled on the mask. Not from the chill of the moisture within, but out of the anticipation. It likely wasn’t the Bat - if he was here there’d be no way Crane would have been warned. Meaning it was probably some intruder who had made a very bad decision to cut through this particular hay field. With a click he turned out the light and creaked open the door.
The cool night air was refreshing and across from him was nothing except waves and waves of rolling hay beneath starry skies. But he trusted his instincts. He pulled back into a shadowy corner of the front porch and waited, his watchful eyes searching for any hint of the intruder. Minutes passed, and the wind died down. The hay field grew still, and in the distance the familiar sound of crickets and frogs were silent. Crane waited, barely noticing his trembling hands and now questioning his instincts to return inside. He could handle this. He clutched his fingers around the compressed gas can as he waited.
The roar that broke the silence was not at all what he’d expected. Something large had crashed into the back of his shack, near his sleeping bag was if he heard right. His heart was pounding as grunts and snarls emerged from within. Crane took a few steps away from the shack, knowing full well that he should run. The creature was bashing around his room, knocking bottles and chemicals around in its wake. Crane turned suddenly and started running; but upon moving at full speed, he heard the snarls subside from behind. A pit in his belly formed as he realized that the thing had heard him.
He pushed his legs faster, splitting through the tall hay as quickly as he could. From behind him he could hear the heavy trampling of the creature moving ever closer. Crane leapt over an old decrepit fence and kept moving, not daring to look back. A mere few paces behind, he heard a break in the creature’s gait: it had leapt the fence as well. Only it took a lot longer for it to hit the ground and Crane began to realize that he wasn’t going to outrun this beast. His lungs were burning and he knew his pace couldn’t last forever. So he stopped suddenly, and turned hoping to catch the creature right in the face.
But as he spun around, his finger already depressing the trigger of the canister in his hand, the hairy beast’s head was far higher - not to mention closer - than he’d anticipated. It pulled its arm down and shouldered him hard. Crane flew through the air and hit the unsympathetic hay with a heavy thud, a burst of pain and heat firing up from his shoulder. He didn’t have long. The beast halted and he knew it was airborne; he turned his eyes toward the sky and saw the creature almost in slow motion, its large muscular shoulders covered in dark grey fur against the orange Harvest Moon above. Its face was keenly wolfish and two clawed arms were outstretched towards him as murder weapon of choice.
Crane’s hand moved much faster than he remembered telling it to, but suddenly the gas canister was between them, dividing him from the falling wolf creature. Its mouth was open wide, showing all two rows of pointed teeth, and Crane released the trigger. A large puff of green gassy liquid filled the creature’s face, and half of the stream went straight into its mouth. Crane smiled as the beast suddenly brought its arms up to its face in confusion, giving him just enough room to roll out of the way as the creature landed where he’d just been.
Pulling himself slowly to his hands and knees, Crane started crawling away from the beast. It was hacking and whimpering behind him, and he smiled to himself. His fear toxin really was quite a wonderful invention. Then a searing pain flashed up his left calf and Crane screamed against it, the tears stinging his eyes as the thing pulled him backwards. He looked over his shoulder to see its jaw locked on his leg, the long streams of blood gushing out of the wound; the beast, though dazed, had dug both clawed hands into the earth to keep leverage.
Crane squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, and flung his arm over his shoulder, shooting another stream out into the beast’s gleaming yellow eyes. It roared in shock, released its bite, and Crane was on his feet again running away as fast as his legs would carry him. The roar behind him turned into blood curdling shrieks as the fear effect finally kicked in, and Crane wondered not for the first time tonight why he ever incorporated a delay in the fear gas.
Back to the chapter listing