Fic: The Daemon Within (Scarecrow): Chapter 2: A Hellhole of a Hideout
Chapter 2: A Hellhole of a Hideout
By the time he reached one of his hideouts within the city, his left leg was killing him. He’d managed one or two miles away from his secluded yet suddenly compromised shack, and he’d been lucky to find a long thin pipe he could use as a makeshift crutch while cutting through a construction site. The entire experience had drained him. It was bad enough that he’d had to rip off a piece of his costume to hastily bandage the wound, but the blood loss was now making him more lightheaded than he cared to admit. As he pushed the heavy door closed behind him, he was already scouring the decrepit room for where he’d placed his medical kit. His mind felt foggy and it was difficult to focus. He gave a longing look at the bed in the next room, still clean and made exactly as he’d left it, but the doctor in him knew that his poor condition would only lead to him bleeding out in his sleep.
He stumbled across the room, putting most of his weight on the pipe as he opened closets and cabinets searching for the kit. With each door he opened, his anxiety grew. Had he moved it to his shack? No, he made it a point to keep a medical kit in every hideout he kept. He’d been in enough crossfire to know how likely a bullet wound was in Gotham. The bathroom, the kitchen, and what passed as a living room - all were bereft of it. Finally, on a fleeting chance, he checked the laundry room. To be honest, he always avoided that room. Pieces of the ceiling were slowly separating from the drywall above, hanging like moldy bee hives from the constant moisture damage above. The only time he went into the room was when he had laundry to do, and he always had to run it twice - once without clothes to get the mud out of the system, and finally the load to get his clothes clean. Some of his fellows might have reveled in the filth, but clean clothes were an absolute necessity to Crane.
He creaked the door open, placed his hand on the frame to steady himself, and reached a hand into the room to flip the switch to the hanging light bulb. It flickered for a moment before deciding to stay on. The stalagmites of peeling wall above had gotten longer and the dark stain had filled the entire ceiling. Jesus, when had he been here last? Certainly more than a month ago. As he racked his bleary mind, the stench of the mold finally hit his nostrils, and he gagged involuntarily at the pungent odor. The mold had definitely decided to claim the room. He held his sleeve up to his nose, and finally spied the closed medical kit on the dryer. He vaguely recalled having to patch up his arm after a spew of hot water had erupted from the washer, but sighed in annoyance with himself nonetheless. He snatched the kit and made sure to close the door behind him. This hideout was not going to work much longer: it had been condemned when he first entered it, but now it was a borderline hazard zone.
He hobbled over to the kitchen first; he’d need some fresh water to sterilize any of the instruments just to be safe. The moldy room had made matters a bit more difficult. He hadn’t thought of the consequences of leaving his medical kit there at the time, but now he berated his lack of forethought. He turned on the pipes, listening curiously to the groaning as the water travelled through them. The mud sputtered out first. Crane knew better than to stand too close until clear hot water was coming out. He filled a bowl and then headed to the living room.
Carefully he lowered himself onto the couch, kicked off his shoes and started to work on the leg. The bandages, he decided, were no longer usable. He shuddered at the thought of putting the potentially moldy items near his oozing wound. Yes, the blood was not coming out as profusely as before but it was still coming. He’d probably agitated it with his walking, even with a makeshift crutch. The wounds were deep but surprisingly not as bad as Crane had expected. He pulled off his mask to get a better view of the wound and swabbed some alcohol around the edges, hissing against the pain. At least it kept him focused. Next, he dipped a needle into the hot water and started stitching the wounds. God, this was always the worst part. When he was finally finished, he took a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat off his forehead. He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen to pull out one of the bottles of water he’d stored there. Knowing he needed the fluids, he downed half before making his way back to the couch and elevating his legs on the opposite arm. He pushed some pillows under his head and finally allowed himself to drift to sleep. What an exhausting evening!
---
He was conducting his research: some victim in a suit was cowering at his feet, howling in agony. Crane was crouched over him, his lips pulled back into a wide grin. At least it felt like a grin. He put his fingers up to his face and felt sharp teeth, his mouth much further forward on his face than it should be. And suddenly his mouth was around the man’s belly, the teeth sinking in to the warm flesh and the screams of the suited subject reached a fever pitch before dying out completely. The blood was hot and metallic in his throat. Crane was screaming, willing his body to back off, to release his grip, but he could no longer control it. And the blood kept flowing, pooling around them both.
---
When he finally woke, the sun was high in the sky and shining into his eyes. His head hurt and so did his right shoulder, recalling vague images of being knocked through the air and the beast lunging at him again. His body was stiff, and pulling up into a sitting position was more difficult than he’d expected. But at least he was alive.
He looked down at his hands and chest, half expecting them to be covered in blood, but thankfully none was to be found. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and tried to find something appetizing. He kept nothing perishable, only canned and freezer food. Finally, he chose a microwavable meal and popped it into the microwave - probably the most well-kept appliance within the shabby building. Then he went back into the living room to turn on the radio. He always kept it on the AM news channels - it was the only way he could get information in this hellhole of a hideout. The food beeped that it was finished, and as he made his way back into the kitchen he realized that he wasn’t using his pipe crutch. In fact he wasn’t hobbling at all.
He leaned down, pulling off the strips of clothing he’d used as bandages and viewed the blood crusted wound again. He propped his leg over the kitchen sink and let some cool water fall over the wound. No pain, not even a hint of discomfort. Using the makeshift bandage he scrubbed at the wound until all he could see were the relatively clean stitches from last night. The skin itself looked perfect. The stitches were fresh, but the skin around them wasn’t even raw. God, how long had he been sleeping?
He rushed back into the living room and turned the volume up on the radio, waiting for the date to be declared. He shook his head slowly as the DJ confirmed that he’d only slept a single evening - how was it possible? Pulling out his food and digging into his mashed potatoes and chicken, Crane wondered what in the world he’d run into last night. And what the hell it had done to him.
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By the time he reached one of his hideouts within the city, his left leg was killing him. He’d managed one or two miles away from his secluded yet suddenly compromised shack, and he’d been lucky to find a long thin pipe he could use as a makeshift crutch while cutting through a construction site. The entire experience had drained him. It was bad enough that he’d had to rip off a piece of his costume to hastily bandage the wound, but the blood loss was now making him more lightheaded than he cared to admit. As he pushed the heavy door closed behind him, he was already scouring the decrepit room for where he’d placed his medical kit. His mind felt foggy and it was difficult to focus. He gave a longing look at the bed in the next room, still clean and made exactly as he’d left it, but the doctor in him knew that his poor condition would only lead to him bleeding out in his sleep.
He stumbled across the room, putting most of his weight on the pipe as he opened closets and cabinets searching for the kit. With each door he opened, his anxiety grew. Had he moved it to his shack? No, he made it a point to keep a medical kit in every hideout he kept. He’d been in enough crossfire to know how likely a bullet wound was in Gotham. The bathroom, the kitchen, and what passed as a living room - all were bereft of it. Finally, on a fleeting chance, he checked the laundry room. To be honest, he always avoided that room. Pieces of the ceiling were slowly separating from the drywall above, hanging like moldy bee hives from the constant moisture damage above. The only time he went into the room was when he had laundry to do, and he always had to run it twice - once without clothes to get the mud out of the system, and finally the load to get his clothes clean. Some of his fellows might have reveled in the filth, but clean clothes were an absolute necessity to Crane.
He creaked the door open, placed his hand on the frame to steady himself, and reached a hand into the room to flip the switch to the hanging light bulb. It flickered for a moment before deciding to stay on. The stalagmites of peeling wall above had gotten longer and the dark stain had filled the entire ceiling. Jesus, when had he been here last? Certainly more than a month ago. As he racked his bleary mind, the stench of the mold finally hit his nostrils, and he gagged involuntarily at the pungent odor. The mold had definitely decided to claim the room. He held his sleeve up to his nose, and finally spied the closed medical kit on the dryer. He vaguely recalled having to patch up his arm after a spew of hot water had erupted from the washer, but sighed in annoyance with himself nonetheless. He snatched the kit and made sure to close the door behind him. This hideout was not going to work much longer: it had been condemned when he first entered it, but now it was a borderline hazard zone.
He hobbled over to the kitchen first; he’d need some fresh water to sterilize any of the instruments just to be safe. The moldy room had made matters a bit more difficult. He hadn’t thought of the consequences of leaving his medical kit there at the time, but now he berated his lack of forethought. He turned on the pipes, listening curiously to the groaning as the water travelled through them. The mud sputtered out first. Crane knew better than to stand too close until clear hot water was coming out. He filled a bowl and then headed to the living room.
Carefully he lowered himself onto the couch, kicked off his shoes and started to work on the leg. The bandages, he decided, were no longer usable. He shuddered at the thought of putting the potentially moldy items near his oozing wound. Yes, the blood was not coming out as profusely as before but it was still coming. He’d probably agitated it with his walking, even with a makeshift crutch. The wounds were deep but surprisingly not as bad as Crane had expected. He pulled off his mask to get a better view of the wound and swabbed some alcohol around the edges, hissing against the pain. At least it kept him focused. Next, he dipped a needle into the hot water and started stitching the wounds. God, this was always the worst part. When he was finally finished, he took a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat off his forehead. He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen to pull out one of the bottles of water he’d stored there. Knowing he needed the fluids, he downed half before making his way back to the couch and elevating his legs on the opposite arm. He pushed some pillows under his head and finally allowed himself to drift to sleep. What an exhausting evening!
---
He was conducting his research: some victim in a suit was cowering at his feet, howling in agony. Crane was crouched over him, his lips pulled back into a wide grin. At least it felt like a grin. He put his fingers up to his face and felt sharp teeth, his mouth much further forward on his face than it should be. And suddenly his mouth was around the man’s belly, the teeth sinking in to the warm flesh and the screams of the suited subject reached a fever pitch before dying out completely. The blood was hot and metallic in his throat. Crane was screaming, willing his body to back off, to release his grip, but he could no longer control it. And the blood kept flowing, pooling around them both.
---
When he finally woke, the sun was high in the sky and shining into his eyes. His head hurt and so did his right shoulder, recalling vague images of being knocked through the air and the beast lunging at him again. His body was stiff, and pulling up into a sitting position was more difficult than he’d expected. But at least he was alive.
He looked down at his hands and chest, half expecting them to be covered in blood, but thankfully none was to be found. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and tried to find something appetizing. He kept nothing perishable, only canned and freezer food. Finally, he chose a microwavable meal and popped it into the microwave - probably the most well-kept appliance within the shabby building. Then he went back into the living room to turn on the radio. He always kept it on the AM news channels - it was the only way he could get information in this hellhole of a hideout. The food beeped that it was finished, and as he made his way back into the kitchen he realized that he wasn’t using his pipe crutch. In fact he wasn’t hobbling at all.
He leaned down, pulling off the strips of clothing he’d used as bandages and viewed the blood crusted wound again. He propped his leg over the kitchen sink and let some cool water fall over the wound. No pain, not even a hint of discomfort. Using the makeshift bandage he scrubbed at the wound until all he could see were the relatively clean stitches from last night. The skin itself looked perfect. The stitches were fresh, but the skin around them wasn’t even raw. God, how long had he been sleeping?
He rushed back into the living room and turned the volume up on the radio, waiting for the date to be declared. He shook his head slowly as the DJ confirmed that he’d only slept a single evening - how was it possible? Pulling out his food and digging into his mashed potatoes and chicken, Crane wondered what in the world he’d run into last night. And what the hell it had done to him.
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