1895
Arkham Asylum
It’s a
chilly spring morning. Batman walks through the gates of the asylum, right past
two guards. One of the guards is a middle-aged man. He seems to know how things
work around here: You don’t mess with the Bat. In fact, you don’t want to have
anything to do with him. They’ve all heard the stories, how he had gone
toe-to-toe with the American alien, how he had waded through a million demons
in hell to make a deal with the devil and save the world, it goes on and it
gets weirder. They don’t of course believe all the stories. But they agree on
one thing, what the Bat did to the Joker after the bastard killed the commissioner’s
daughter is the worst thing he has ever done, or the worst he has done that
they know about. Who knows what he is
hiding beneath that mask—what other bleak deeds—and who wants to know, really?
The first guard certainly does not.
The other
guard happens to be an overzealous young lad. He scurries up behind Batman.
“Stop, son!
Don’t!” says the middle-aged guard. His warning goes unheeded.
“You can’t,”
says the young guard with a stutter, “you can’t just go inside, sir!” Batman
stops. The young lad’s legs begin to tremble and soon his hands and then his
whole body.
“It’s best
for both for us that we don’t do this,” says Batman, without turning back.
The young
guard tries to say something but his vocal organs refuse to orchestrate
any noise.
“Alright,
then.” Batman goes on his way, past the main asylum doors, leaving the guard to
tremble and self-loath in the spacious front yard.
As he turns
to go back to his post, he sees a blonde man in a tan trench coat, standing in the
street outside the gates, puffing at a cigarette. The young guard has learned
to mind his own business.
***
Batman is
greeted inside by the warden of the asylum, Dr. William Sharp. They stand at
the Crossroads, a room that leads to all the different sections of the facility.
“I have to
talk to Crane, Bill,” says Batman.
“For a case," Dr. Sharp replies in a trivial manner, looking at a file.
“Yes.”
“That is
twice you’ve wanted to see him this month. He has been here for over a year now
and he has been a model patient. I fail to see how you’re drawing a connection
between him and any criminal activity.”
“Actually,”
says Batman, “it’s his expertise in the field of psychopharmacology that brings
me here.”
“Why him?”
says Dr. Sharp, raising an eyebrow. “We have doctors here who can—”
“Because he
is the best,” says Batman, confidently.
“Well, at
least I appreciate you being honest. Take the hallway to your left, as always.”
“And Bill,”
says Batman, “I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell Gordon, or anyone in the law
enforcement, about my meeting with Crane.”
It sounds
like a request, if not a plea. Batman can tell that Dr. Sharp is amused even
though the doctor doesn’t let it on. It’s not a comfortable place, where you
have to trust someone to not betray you; a problem that arises when you are
dealing with a generally good person with a clean record.
“Sure,” says
the doctor. He takes a moment of silence before adding, “as long as your mate Wayne keeps
funding the researches.”
Good or bad, every person has needs, and self-interest is the only real motive there is. Once upon a
time, Batman endeavored to prove that that was not true, that some people could
be selfless, that he could inspire the people of Gotham to rise above that
mortal coil.
“Don’t worry
about it,” says Batman, holding something of a smirk. The doctor nods and walks
back the way they came. As soon as the doctor is out of sight, Batman’s face
drops. He struggles to not imagine how Alfred would look at him right now.
***
One of the
senior nurses unlocks the door to Jonathan Crane’s cabin, she examines the caped
crusader with a glaring look, and steps aside.
“Yous even touch
the feller and ay am send’n out for the bizzies!” says the nurse, pointing a
finger at Batman’s face. Her hand does not tremble, her eyes resolute, there is
no hint of hesitation or stutter in her voice.
Batman’s eyes
widen and his mouth slightly drops—so slightly that only a couple of beetles
may squeeze in. He realizes that the nurse can see through him. You don’t fear
what you understand, and the nurse understands that he is all but an animal.
His shock immediately turns into shame.
“That’s not
why I’m here,” He manages to mutter.
“I got this,
Jenny.” A calm voice calls out from inside the cabin. Batman hasn’t seen Crane
since the incident; he has been
dreading this moment for a long time. The door creaks open, revealing a feeble,
blind Jonathan Crane; he is wearing a pair of dark spectacles and using a cane.
“I believe
our guest would prefer to talk to me in private,” says Crane.
“Yous be
careful, Crane,” says the nurse. She gives Batman one last glare before going
on her way.
“Don’t worry
about her,” says Crane, gesturing at Batman to enter the cabin.
“I wasn’t.”
Batman follows Crane inside. He closes the door behind but does not lock it.
“Behold, the
Scarecrow’s final lair!” Crane ironically extends an arm at the room.
There’s a
bed, a wooden table with some academic books and a notebook on it, and that’s about it. Batman stays on his guard as he watches Crane approach the table—he winces at almost every step—and struggle to find something. Batman couldn’t have imagined Crane would
be in such a bad condition. He mentally tries to justify that Crane deserves it
for everything he has done.
“Don’t try
to help me and don’t touch anything. If you do, I’ll hit you with my cane,”
says Crane, still searching.
“You’re
blind,” says Batman.
“Observation
or underestimation? Either way, sod off,” says Crane. “Ah! Found it.”
It’s a book. Crane hands it to Batman. On Meaningful Co-incidences by Dr. Jonathan Crane.
“Crane, I
need—”
“Aye, mate.
It’s one of the three copies ever printed. I could never forget the feel of
that cover. I lost one of the copies in Basel, while attending a conference.
The conference itself was pretty dull. Just a buncha old sods patting themselves
on the back. Science has reached its peak, my arse!”
Crane sits
down on the edge of the bed. Batman turns a few pages of the book, as he stands
his ground, helpless to Crane’s rant.
“Anyway,”
says Crane, “I got drunk and misplaced the book. The other copy though—my own
students at Gotham University set it on fire right outside the faculty.
Happened two days after you revealed to Gotham that I was the Scarecrow. Or, so
I heard. I hear a lot of things these days.”
Batman
notices that Crane is smiling on his own as if he is deep down into an
ecstatic thought, free from the interference of visual signals. He also snaps
back on his own, as the ecstasy in his face is replaced by seriousness.
“Why did you
want to talk to me, Batman?” asks Crane.
“I need your
opinion on something,” says Batman.
“Go on, spill
it then, or are you not sure where to begin? I’m certain I can get Jenny to
bring a couple of couches in.”
Batman puts
Crane’s book down on the table and takes out a small notebook from his utility
belt. He places it in Crane’s hand.
“What is it?”
Crane is a little startled.
“Have a look.
I had the information written in braille.”
Crane chuckles
gratefully and opens the notebook; he begins to feel the pages.
“Are these,”
says Crane, eyes widened, “formulas?”
Batman crosses his arms and waits for any reaction from Crane. But then Crane begins to laugh hysterically. This doesn’t bode well.
“This is
what the Bat is doing nowadays, eh? Synthesizing recreational drugs?”
“It’s not
just that, Crane.”
“Oh I know,
love. This is based off my concept of the fear toxin, isn’t it? Bloody
brilliant.”
“Will it
work?”
“Not a good
question. Does it seem theoretically correct? Yes. Ethical? No. Could it
disintegrate your brain permanently? It could.”
“So it will
work.”
“Your overestimation
of yourself is going to be the end of you,” says Crane, “and I could not care
less.”
Crane tosses
the notebook at Batman’s approximate direction. Batman catches it with one hand
and tucks it inside one of the belt pockets.
“Well, this
has been pleasant,” says Crane. “I appreciate you coming down here, asking for
my opinion and all. I somewhat regret refusing to see you the last time. If I’d
known you have grown soft—or have you? Might just be Arkham. Honest to god, this
place does that to a man.”
“One other
thing, Crane,” says Batman, rather hesitantly. “I know you have had interactions
with Professor Moriarty in the past and—”
“Since you’ve
been nice to me all morning,” says Crane, “I’ll spare you some advice. Do not
make the same mistake again. Admit that you shuffled the wrong feathers and
paid the price for it.”
“Tread.
Carefully. Crane,” says Batman, clenching his jaws. His fists could burst right
now.
“Nothing
good waits for you down that path. She wouldn’t want you to—”
“You blind
fool!” Batman screams but immediately regrets it.
“Don’t you
bloody dare,” says Crane. “You did this to me.”
Crane’s
whole body trembles, not out of fear but out of rage. He can’t hold it in
anymore. He hurries to get up and in the process loses grip of his cane, then
crumbles to the ground himself. But it does not lessen his spirit.
“You did
this to me! You’re the fool. You are no knight, for you have no honor! Your
code only conceals that fact. You may think you have never taken a life, but
you have, you self-righteous bastard. You have ruined mine.”
“I did what
I had to do stop you before you hurt more people.”
“To stop the
Scarecrow, you mean.”
“You think
there’s a difference.”
“Are you
joking, mate? I didn’t want to be the Scarecrow. I couldn’t help it. I’m
somewhat grateful that you put me in here too. But I had a life going on as
Jonathan Crane. I was doing important work at GU and I was making progress. You
should read my book.
“You have
taken away any chance that I ever had of leading a normal life. I have nothing
to look forward to. I’m stuck here. I don’t know why I shouldn’t take a page
out of Joker’s book.
“What about
you? Are you telling me you’re the same brute and rage underneath that cowl?
Maybe that brute and rage is who you are. But is that who you want to be? Ah,
bloody hell, why am I humanizing you?”
Batman is
towering over Crane, the palm of his hand covering his face as he shakes his head. He wishes he wasn’t
standing where he was. He wishes nothing was real, all but a dream. He exits
the cabin without uttering another word.
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