Batman - Shattered
Title: Shattered.
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: herukatto@hotmail.com.
Part: 1/1. Though I might decide to do a sequel.
Disclaimer: Obviously not mine. I can wish, but considering that both Bats and Scarecrow, and Arkham, for that matter, has been around since way before I was born... They belong to DC comics.
Warnings: ...Insanity?
Rating: I'm going to stick with PG-13, just in case.
Summary: A look into Dr. Crane/Scarecrow's head while sitting around in Arkham with a lot of time on his hands.
Pairing(s): Well, it's Batman/Crane(Scarecrow), but mostly just implied.
Fandom: Batman (comic-verse and movie-verse (Batman Begins) hybrid)
The light was sudden and painful. After having spent most of the last two weeks in total darkness except when they brought him food, his eyes had adjusted to darkness. They said it was his own fault, said it was because he’d gotten out the light bulb and had stabbed the guard with it. He didn’t believe them, of course. They always lied. And blamed him for things he couldn’t help. The bulb had been there, after all, and he could hardly not have noticed it, since it was shining most of the time. So he’d taken it down, and neatly broken it open, careful not to make a mess of it. He really couldn’t have done anything else, and the way the guard had stared at him, eyes wide open in fear and panic, when he drove the glass into his arm had been perfect.
They had not agreed, though, and they had strapped him in all tightly in his straitjacket and told him he could stay there, in the dark, because he shouldn’t have done what he’d done. They’d only meant to leave him there for the weekend, originally, he had overheard them talking. They often did that, talking over his head as though they thought him stupid. Insulting, really, from someone he doubted had even gone to college. He was a little unhinged, yes, and as he thought that, there was a definite demented giggle in the back of his mind, but insanity didn’t necessarily equal stupidity. He’d told them that, and that they were really being quite unreasonable and unprofessional in their choice of punishments, and they should listen to him. He was a professional, after all.
They hadn’t liked that, though, and had left him in the dark for two weeks, only unstrapping his straightjacket when he was given food. Isolation, they called it, and he knew, because he’d used similar methods on patients, though never for such petty reasons, no. Not him. But it wasn’t really isolation to him, because he was never truly alone. He was two people at the same time, after all, and while he didn’t always get along with his selves, he always had someone to talk to, someone who kept the silence and darkness from getting to him. Some people were afraid of silence and darkness, though not him, no. Maybe he’d take out the power supplies when he took his next unscheduled vacation. He smiled as he thought of the panic he’d create by doing that.
“What’s so funny, Dr. Crane?” One of the guards asked, sneering at him as though he couldn’t see them. True, his eyes were hurting from the light, and they’d taken his glasses away, nothing sharp or breakable near children and madmen, but he had always paid attention to details.
He got to his feet, swaying slightly before falling against the wall. One good thing about padded walls. No bruises. No new ones, at least, and the old ones were fading. He bruised easily, his skin being rather fair from nature’s side, and with at least one of the many medications he was fed being blood thinning. His skinny frame didn’t help matters, either, but Arkham food tasted like boiled-down rubber boots and cardboard, and maybe he was crazy, but he wasn’t about to eat a lot of that food. Neither of them were.
And Batman certainly didn’t help anything. He said he wouldn’t kill, wouldn’t fall down on the same level as the criminals. Maybe that was the truth, and maybe not. Neither of his selves believed Batman’s claims, at least. Maybe Batman himself believed them. The man obviously needed therapy every bit as much as they did. And if he really only wanted to incapacitate the criminals, why didn’t he just get a tranquillizer gun? No, there was more to it than that. Batman certainly seemed to take some sort of twisted delight in breaking his bones when the Scarecrow was his main self. The bruises on his body were all from the last time the Batman had brought him in. The man had slammed him repeatedly against a wall. Brutal. As crazy as he was, or they were, these days, but allowed to run free because he was “good”.
One of the guards came into the cell and dragged him out, dragging him along down the hallway. Both of his selves wanted to kick the guard, but the doctor noted that it’d be pointless, and besides, it’d be near impossible to kick anyone with his legs strapped together. It was hard enough to keep up with the guard’s striding walk. The Scarecrow sulked in the back of their shared mind, a sort of hissing buzz, as though he had a snake in one ear and a bumblebee in the other. Such ridiculousness. He really had to get out of here soon, or he’d go truly insane. They said that who you surrounded yourself with affected you, after all, and he was surrounded by madmen.
Fear. It all came back to fear, running circles around or around. No, not circles. A spiral, steep and horrible, where those who just gave in to their fears found themselves tumbling down head first, until they crashed at the bottom, and couldn’t climb back up. That was why he was in here, after all. Not his insanity, because there were so many insane people, something he knew all too well. He was a psychiatrist, after all, and he’d seen so many cases of insanity. He knew how insanity was like a worm-eaten peach. It tasted sweet, so sweet until you saw the holes, or worse; half a worm. Then there was fear. And he, both of him, knew fear better than anyone. Dr. Crane studied it. The Scarecrow used it. Much like the Batman, but he was in here because people feared him, feared what he could do. Too unpredictable, they said. Too deadly. Too insane. And Batman was good, wasn’t he? And thus they didn’t fear him.
The bruising on their ribs and back, and around the wrists, where too tight cuffs had dug into pale skin when the Batman dragged him back to Arkham proved that they were the ones that were right. Dr. Crane and Scarecrow who might have bad vision without the glasses they needed, but who saw so much more than the others did. The public should fear the Bat. For now, he was contained, but the only thing that separated Batman from being like the two of them was that the glass keeping his demons was still whole, if slightly cracked. Their glass was shattered, in a shower of brilliant, razor-sharp shards, and it allowed them a freedom of following their desire for fear without distractions.
As the guards shoved him down on one of the specially made chairs, strapping his straitjacket and leg straps so tightly to the chair that the metal dug into his sore bruises, he allowed himself to drift off mentally, not paying any attention to the doctor who’d entered the room. Instead, his thoughts were on the Batman again, wondering. Maybe there was a way to further crack the glass that contained the Batman’s demons, so he’d stop ruining their fun. Harder than just killing him, obviously, but then, that always failed, and left their body all beaten up and aching. Not that the aching was always bad, but the timing was. Like them, the Batman chose to wear a mask to cause fear in others. It was a thrill watching the Bat attack his henchmen, their absolute fear causing both his selves great delight. A man who had a similar idea of fear might make a wonderful playmate once that pesky glass barrier was shattered. Much more fun than simply killing him, and he’d have someone to talk to that wasn’t all caught up in silly ideas.
Dr. Crane smiled to himself as the Scarecrow grinned from ear to ear in his head, ignoring the droning voice of the, in his opinion worthless, doctor as he plotted his actions and new goal. And what he’d do next time he was stuck between a Bat and a hard place. Certainly, there were nice little ways to make the Batman a suitable companion. He knew quite a few.
And maybe he could make him bruise parts of him that wasn’t his frequently abused ribs for once.
*
Notes: I think this is really more comic-verse Scarecrow than movie-verse Scarecrow, as movieCrow is more the Dissociative Identity Disorder (split personality) type, while comicCrow strikes me more as schizophrenic. Of course, I'm not an expert on disorders. And my Scarecrow-muse is busy terrorizing my other muses and can't be bothered telling me. It's definately comic-Bat, who is a lot less stable and seems to like hurting the Scarecrow. In the four books I have around, he chokes him with a noose, breaks his ribs, jumps on top of him and presses his head against the floor and makes sure he gets three months in isolation at Arkham for something he didn't even do. Bad Bat, no cookie. He also tears the head off a Scarecrow dummy the doctor uses as a decoy, but that was probably an accident...
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: herukatto@hotmail.com.
Part: 1/1. Though I might decide to do a sequel.
Disclaimer: Obviously not mine. I can wish, but considering that both Bats and Scarecrow, and Arkham, for that matter, has been around since way before I was born... They belong to DC comics.
Warnings: ...Insanity?
Rating: I'm going to stick with PG-13, just in case.
Summary: A look into Dr. Crane/Scarecrow's head while sitting around in Arkham with a lot of time on his hands.
Pairing(s): Well, it's Batman/Crane(Scarecrow), but mostly just implied.
Fandom: Batman (comic-verse and movie-verse (Batman Begins) hybrid)
The light was sudden and painful. After having spent most of the last two weeks in total darkness except when they brought him food, his eyes had adjusted to darkness. They said it was his own fault, said it was because he’d gotten out the light bulb and had stabbed the guard with it. He didn’t believe them, of course. They always lied. And blamed him for things he couldn’t help. The bulb had been there, after all, and he could hardly not have noticed it, since it was shining most of the time. So he’d taken it down, and neatly broken it open, careful not to make a mess of it. He really couldn’t have done anything else, and the way the guard had stared at him, eyes wide open in fear and panic, when he drove the glass into his arm had been perfect.
They had not agreed, though, and they had strapped him in all tightly in his straitjacket and told him he could stay there, in the dark, because he shouldn’t have done what he’d done. They’d only meant to leave him there for the weekend, originally, he had overheard them talking. They often did that, talking over his head as though they thought him stupid. Insulting, really, from someone he doubted had even gone to college. He was a little unhinged, yes, and as he thought that, there was a definite demented giggle in the back of his mind, but insanity didn’t necessarily equal stupidity. He’d told them that, and that they were really being quite unreasonable and unprofessional in their choice of punishments, and they should listen to him. He was a professional, after all.
They hadn’t liked that, though, and had left him in the dark for two weeks, only unstrapping his straightjacket when he was given food. Isolation, they called it, and he knew, because he’d used similar methods on patients, though never for such petty reasons, no. Not him. But it wasn’t really isolation to him, because he was never truly alone. He was two people at the same time, after all, and while he didn’t always get along with his selves, he always had someone to talk to, someone who kept the silence and darkness from getting to him. Some people were afraid of silence and darkness, though not him, no. Maybe he’d take out the power supplies when he took his next unscheduled vacation. He smiled as he thought of the panic he’d create by doing that.
“What’s so funny, Dr. Crane?” One of the guards asked, sneering at him as though he couldn’t see them. True, his eyes were hurting from the light, and they’d taken his glasses away, nothing sharp or breakable near children and madmen, but he had always paid attention to details.
He got to his feet, swaying slightly before falling against the wall. One good thing about padded walls. No bruises. No new ones, at least, and the old ones were fading. He bruised easily, his skin being rather fair from nature’s side, and with at least one of the many medications he was fed being blood thinning. His skinny frame didn’t help matters, either, but Arkham food tasted like boiled-down rubber boots and cardboard, and maybe he was crazy, but he wasn’t about to eat a lot of that food. Neither of them were.
And Batman certainly didn’t help anything. He said he wouldn’t kill, wouldn’t fall down on the same level as the criminals. Maybe that was the truth, and maybe not. Neither of his selves believed Batman’s claims, at least. Maybe Batman himself believed them. The man obviously needed therapy every bit as much as they did. And if he really only wanted to incapacitate the criminals, why didn’t he just get a tranquillizer gun? No, there was more to it than that. Batman certainly seemed to take some sort of twisted delight in breaking his bones when the Scarecrow was his main self. The bruises on his body were all from the last time the Batman had brought him in. The man had slammed him repeatedly against a wall. Brutal. As crazy as he was, or they were, these days, but allowed to run free because he was “good”.
One of the guards came into the cell and dragged him out, dragging him along down the hallway. Both of his selves wanted to kick the guard, but the doctor noted that it’d be pointless, and besides, it’d be near impossible to kick anyone with his legs strapped together. It was hard enough to keep up with the guard’s striding walk. The Scarecrow sulked in the back of their shared mind, a sort of hissing buzz, as though he had a snake in one ear and a bumblebee in the other. Such ridiculousness. He really had to get out of here soon, or he’d go truly insane. They said that who you surrounded yourself with affected you, after all, and he was surrounded by madmen.
Fear. It all came back to fear, running circles around or around. No, not circles. A spiral, steep and horrible, where those who just gave in to their fears found themselves tumbling down head first, until they crashed at the bottom, and couldn’t climb back up. That was why he was in here, after all. Not his insanity, because there were so many insane people, something he knew all too well. He was a psychiatrist, after all, and he’d seen so many cases of insanity. He knew how insanity was like a worm-eaten peach. It tasted sweet, so sweet until you saw the holes, or worse; half a worm. Then there was fear. And he, both of him, knew fear better than anyone. Dr. Crane studied it. The Scarecrow used it. Much like the Batman, but he was in here because people feared him, feared what he could do. Too unpredictable, they said. Too deadly. Too insane. And Batman was good, wasn’t he? And thus they didn’t fear him.
The bruising on their ribs and back, and around the wrists, where too tight cuffs had dug into pale skin when the Batman dragged him back to Arkham proved that they were the ones that were right. Dr. Crane and Scarecrow who might have bad vision without the glasses they needed, but who saw so much more than the others did. The public should fear the Bat. For now, he was contained, but the only thing that separated Batman from being like the two of them was that the glass keeping his demons was still whole, if slightly cracked. Their glass was shattered, in a shower of brilliant, razor-sharp shards, and it allowed them a freedom of following their desire for fear without distractions.
As the guards shoved him down on one of the specially made chairs, strapping his straitjacket and leg straps so tightly to the chair that the metal dug into his sore bruises, he allowed himself to drift off mentally, not paying any attention to the doctor who’d entered the room. Instead, his thoughts were on the Batman again, wondering. Maybe there was a way to further crack the glass that contained the Batman’s demons, so he’d stop ruining their fun. Harder than just killing him, obviously, but then, that always failed, and left their body all beaten up and aching. Not that the aching was always bad, but the timing was. Like them, the Batman chose to wear a mask to cause fear in others. It was a thrill watching the Bat attack his henchmen, their absolute fear causing both his selves great delight. A man who had a similar idea of fear might make a wonderful playmate once that pesky glass barrier was shattered. Much more fun than simply killing him, and he’d have someone to talk to that wasn’t all caught up in silly ideas.
Dr. Crane smiled to himself as the Scarecrow grinned from ear to ear in his head, ignoring the droning voice of the, in his opinion worthless, doctor as he plotted his actions and new goal. And what he’d do next time he was stuck between a Bat and a hard place. Certainly, there were nice little ways to make the Batman a suitable companion. He knew quite a few.
And maybe he could make him bruise parts of him that wasn’t his frequently abused ribs for once.
*
Notes: I think this is really more comic-verse Scarecrow than movie-verse Scarecrow, as movieCrow is more the Dissociative Identity Disorder (split personality) type, while comicCrow strikes me more as schizophrenic. Of course, I'm not an expert on disorders. And my Scarecrow-muse is busy terrorizing my other muses and can't be bothered telling me. It's definately comic-Bat, who is a lot less stable and seems to like hurting the Scarecrow. In the four books I have around, he chokes him with a noose, breaks his ribs, jumps on top of him and presses his head against the floor and makes sure he gets three months in isolation at Arkham for something he didn't even do. Bad Bat, no cookie. He also tears the head off a Scarecrow dummy the doctor uses as a decoy, but that was probably an accident...