Chapter Text
Harleen beckons with a quick hand before slipping inside. Blake glances behind him and hesitates, peering inside the room and scouring the ceiling and walls for signs of cameras or traps, but it looks almost like any other space in the building. Cheap and bare, the tidy furniture and generic art on the walls are the only elements that define it as an office. He sees a shrink couch in the far corner, surrounded by dying plants, and a mug filled with what smells like stale coffee on a plastic desk.
"Not much for decorating, is he." Harleen snorts as they feel their way around. "Nobody around to explain color theory for 'im?"
"You'd think a psychologist would at least have a welcome mat." Blake scoffs in response. "Harleen." He suddenly whispers. "Look here."
Right under the couch. He can just make out the indentation in the carpet. An attic door, by the looks of it. He'd walked in enough cheap apartments to feel something was off about the floor -- dead mouse, moldy foundation, the list was endless -- and the moment he stepped past it his feet sank in uncomfortably.
"Good eye." She says with a low whistle. "We won't have to turn the place upside down now."
"Your bat can't solve every problem." He mutters. She deigns to ignore him as she kneels, peels back a tiny square of carpet and starts picking the lock.
Not even a minute and the door is creaking open. She was damn good at this. Blake leans forward with her and peeks down. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. As far as he can tell it's clean and tidy, noticeably bare of cobwebs, dust and just about anything that would characterize a cellar. Any more information he could get is swallowed in the dark.
"One of us should stay out here in case he comes back." He squints further. "I can go down."
"I ain't afraid of rats." She snickers. "I'm partnerin' with you, ain't I?" He rolls his eyes and leans his head down. "That was a compliment, by the way." She whispers good-naturedly."
"You're making me blush." He responds dryly. "All right, let's wait by the door and make sure-"
"Nah, lemme go in."
"Wait, what?"
"You heard me." She scoots forward and swings both legs down into the narrow space. "I'll check if there's anything nasty waitin' for us."
He pushes greasy palms down his jeans as she vanishes into the dark. Everything doesn't just feel wrong. It feels like something's waiting to blow. Harleen doesn't seem to share his oversensitive stomach, landing on something wooden with a muffled thud and flicking her phone out. It's not a long trip, hardly more than a particularly clean tunnel, but it feels like a lifetime as his head struggles to catch up with his intuition. She starts to pick at something and he's pawing at his pistol. Waiting.
'Gut don't fail me now.'
Click.
The only other way he can tell a door's opened is the sudden flood of cold, stale air. What was this originally? A public attic? Generator storage? The vertical door placement is odd. Maybe it was an impromptu job. Then Harleen sneezes so loud she echoes right up the tunnel and he has to bite his tongue so he doesn't yelp. A soft tap-tap follows. Her bat? Whatever she's doing, nothing seems to be happening. No traps. No explosions. No alarms.
"What's up with this weird door?" He hears her say below.
"Yeah, it's more than a little weird." He answers, relieved to hear her voice. "Was the lock old-fashioned or more up-to-date?"
"It was easy to pick, so very much old-fashioned." She responds cheekily.
That was promising. Mulling over accurate theories, though, isn't making him feel any better. If anything the lack of personal insight into what the hell is down there is making him itch uncontrollably. He thinks of Bane. How he doesn't fear the dark or view it as an obstacle, but applies to it the same practicality he gave everything else. How he can all but see straight through it. He thinks about how the masked man was raised for years in a cold, dark place. That, if anything else, these spaces might feel more familiar to him than the outside world. Perhaps he should take also take a cue from the dark knight. Batman, much like him, had to adjust in the opposite direction.
Harleen flicks her light on. Sudden shapes takes place in the open square below. He can just make out the corner of a table. He sees fuzzy shapes beneath, probably boxes. Maybe papers? He instinctively faces away from her, checking the door, and lifts down his phone to add to her light. Newspaper clippings and files are spread out rather haphazardly, the sudden mess giving a far more human touch to the more bare and everyday they'd been exposed to so far. His curiosity kicks into overdrive. They hit paydirt.
Then the door below slams shut. His blood turns to ice.
"...Harleen?" He hisses after a shocked moment. She might not be able to hear him. He leans against the weak floor and calls louder into the tunnel. "Harleen?"
"Gives a whole new meaning to the term 'shut-in', huh?" She calls back. He blows out a sigh of relief. "I think I'll join you for ruined blood pressure, Sherlock."
"Good thing I didn't join." He says. "You're not in danger, are you?" Harleen doesn't speak for a straight minute. In the silence he hears the occasional thump or creak, sometimes below, sometimes without and where his ears can't place. It takes all his willpower not to dive down and claw his way inside. Anything to curb the paranoia batting his heart around in his chest.
"No danger, doll. Lots of, uh...photos, though. Lots of papers. Guy's a real fixer-upper, I'll tell you." He finally hears, though she's so distant he can barely make her out. She must be walking deeper inside. "...Fuckin' creep..."
"Photos of what?" He calls. "Grab what you can if it looks safe."
She says something else. He can't understand her. He whips out his phone and hastily dials her number. When she picks up, he almost wish he hadn't.
"He's documenting his work, Blake. He has photos and records of everything. People as places as people, just like a good little psychologist." He knows she's serious if she's using his actual name. He whips around at the sound of a creak behind him. The door to the office is still closed. He should put something in front of it. They need time to figure out the trap that has her locked in-
"He's runnin' some sort of operation here. Usin' the people here as test subjects for...toxin? Trauma toxin? He's got different names for it..." It sounds like she's reading something off. "'Aisha sees visions of her four year-old son who died in a drive-by shooting. She will do anything I ask for a dose of the toxin. As far as I'm concerned it's non-addictive, but she visits my office everyday. Double-check her dopamine levels.'" A shuffle of papers. Something hits the floor. "'Nnedi succumbs to severe depression when exposed to minor dosages. An alcoholic. Will check for interactions with various barbiturates.'"
He's gripping the floor so hard he's starting to get carpet burn. What the hell? He knew it would be bad. Bane had held nothing back when he described the man's resume. But...how much longer could this have gone on if they did nothing? What would've happened to the people here? ...What has happened to the people here? That woman. Aisha. No wonder she was so eager to get them in. He hears a few muttered voices somewhere down the hall. Residents, it sounds like. He can't focus on them. Not when Harleen says...
"'Seth committed suicide after just one session involving new toxin.'" Her voice has softened. Hardly more than a whisper. "'Reminder to view his background history for potential history of substance abuse.'"
They're both silent now. He can just hear her shuffling through evidence over the phone's speaker, a cursed rustle in his ear. They've done more in a few weeks than the entirety of Gotham law enforcement would even bother with in a year, but what should be a victory just feels...listless. He rises to his feet, zombie-like, and slowly walks over to the wooden chair in the corner. Harleen's voice over the receiver doesn't even jolt him out of his reverie.
"I'm gonna shove so much lead up this doctor's ass people will confuse him for a five-foot-eight pencil."
"Yeah. We'll get there." He mutters as he drags the chair to the door. "...First let's get you out of that room. There's probably an alarm we tripped-"
He freezes when the handle jiggles.
"You'll find my methods quite aggressive." He hears just outside the door, a smooth voice, followed by canned laughter. "I'm sorry, that sounded excessive. Rather, you'll see results sooner than you think. My new technique has shown incredible promise..."
Blake looks at the chair, then to the open door beneath the couch, the numbness in his brain revving into activity like an accelerated engine. Harleen is saying something else. He drops the chair and rushes over to the attic door, kicking it closed and pulling the couch back over it. What else did they disturb? Everything seems to be in place. Maybe he could slip into the closet door and watch. Then a rush of cool air tickles his clothes.
"...What...are you doing in my office?"
The detective stiffens, then slowly looks over his shoulder. Johnathan Crane is standing in the doorway. He looks much like he remembers him at the city hall, though his suit is much less tattered and his glasses sport black rims instead of gold. Smooth hair, shiny shoes, the very image of working-class professionalism. Two others are behind him, an older man in heavy winter clothes and a younger woman in what appears to be a work outfit, likely residents of the complex. Aisha isn't with them. The poor woman must still be down the hall.
He can imagine what they're seeing from their point of view. A classic jumped-up robber, clad in gray and black with only two dark eyes peering out from an obscuring scarf. No one speaks. Not even Harleen is budging below or speaking on the phone. Blake pulls out his gun. Crane's hands immediately whip up in surrender. The two behind him follow suit. His expression is still calm, but there's a gray pallor spreading over his skin. Good. He doesn't want to scare the residents behind him, no, but this twisted scientist was long overdue for a little fear of his own.
"Whatever you may want is in a safe to your right. I keep money and some belongings in there that could be worth quite a lot." He starts, though his eyes dart to the couch. "It's not much, but please..."
"I don't give a shit about your money." Blake hisses. One of the residents, the younger woman, shifts uncomfortably. They're not as afraid as he would expect bystanders to be with a gun to their faces, more confused than anything else. Crane's eyes flick up and down. An intellectual's reasoning with the unknown.
"You seriously thought you'd be able to get away with this." Blake's hand is trembling in little fits. Attempting to register with the demon masquerading in human flesh just feet away from him. His emotions are treacherous waters, but Harleen's words are still ringing in his ears. "Then again, Gotham's seen some shit in its day. Couldn't say I blame you."
"...Who..." The man begins. "...are you?"
"I'm someone fed up with sociopaths like you using my city like your personal chemistry set." He says softly. "Someone who's not going to give you another chance...unlike Batman or Bane."
They're the right names to drop. The caution in Crane's eyes instead widen into the look of a person afraid they stepped on the toes of someone important.
"Oh, yeah. I know all about you." He takes a step closer, finger itching to yank back the trigger and send every last wicked thought spraying onto the front door. "What you pulled eight years ago. The League Of Shadows funding your sick experiments. How Batman got you locked up in Arkham Asylum and how Bane let you parade around the city hall for shits and giggles. You're no mystery, Crane. Just a disgusting wanna-be terror in a city that's already outdone you."
Blake wouldn't call himself vindictive, but there's a nasty pride in the utter bewilderment whitening Crane's face. He's just peppered the man with verbal bullets and he's struggling to keep his footing, opening his mouth to speak only to shut it again. The detective was going to have to explain to the residents (why did they just look confused, they must've seen a lot in this depressing place already-) the details, though. Get them out so he could tie the guy up and ship him to Tatsu.
"You sound like you have friends in high places." Crane starts, throat bobbing in poorly concealed swallows. "I don't believe...we've met..."
Blake doesn't feel or smell the gas so much as hear it venting from somewhere below. He clutches the mask on his face, eager to reassure himself, and Harleen's cackle penetrates the floorboards under his feet.
"Way ahead of you, Straw Man!" He feels her knock on the low ceiling with her bat for emphasis. "Why don'tcha come down here and fight toe-to-toe like a real Gotham tough guy? You're giving the rest of us a bad name!"
Crane's eyes widen for the last time...then his entire demeanor changes.
"Well. That's very interesting company you keep." Something much less cautious drawls his voice. "Harleen Quinzel spreading her tall tales again? Rallying the troubled youth with her...effervescent wiles?"
Blake narrows his eyes. The cold confidence that's now squared the scientist's shoulders doesn't leave.
"I must say, you don't seem like her typical crew." He continues, musing on the situation like he's reading off a student report.
"...Yeah?" Blake responds. "Why's that?"
"You are clearly much more foolish." The man moves his hands and Blake immediately levels his pistol with his head. Crane pulls his hand back. The two behind him could be confused for mannequins. Still and silent.
"You're going to tell me how to open that door back up." Blake says. "Before you tell me about everything else."
"And just what is everything else?"
"What your drug does to people. How it messes with their psychology and drives some to suicide. Why it leaves side-effects that last for years. How to stop it. Every little damn thing I can think of. I've got time, unlike you."
"And if I find that a ludicrous assertion?" Crane sighs. What would he do? Shoot him? Torture him? He had to admit, he didn't think he'd get this far. Their good luck had looked up without so much as a forewarning. They could've been in here for hours. Perhaps longer. Hesitation isn't making him look good. He can see it in the slow, smug smirk stretching Crane's face.
"How are you doing down there, Harleen?" He has to raise his voice to carry through the floor. "I heard something venting. You okay?"
"There's somethin' funny about this gas. I don't mean in the laughin' way..." She doesn't sound so humorous now. He can still hear something going on below. A faint hiss that could be easily confused for air-conditioning or a sagging balloon. Of course Crane wouldn't bother with a simple trap or alarm. It'd simply be easier to kill anyone who made it this far and clean up the mess later.
"Why the hell would you do this?" It's a useless question and they both know it, but the disgust weighing down his very bones demands he ask. "You got a second chance when Batman spared you. This is what you do with it?"
"You waste interrogating me when she's getting a front row seat to my newest work?" Crane chuckles. "You're more naive than you look...and I can't see much with all that fuss over your face, if we're being honest."
"She has a mask." He says, doubt starting to crawl all over him. "She'll be fine."
"Will that protect her from third-degree burns?"
"What?"
"It melts plastic." Crane says with a shrug. "Burns wood. Loosens up metal, though it depends on various factors like copper density that I'm sure won't interest you. I don't believe soft, fleshy human skin would stand much of a chance, really." Blake glances to the two behind Crane. Why the hell are they still standing there like he didn't just describe a thorough and cruel form of murder? Are they accomplices...? The rumble of floorboards. Sudden desperate banging. Harleen is trying to break out.
"Help me." Crane's voice is suddenly pleading. He's speaking to the two behind him. Jogging them out of whatever drugged reverie they were in. "He's trying to steal our work. You can't let him. With all the progress we've made..."
"You have to get out!" Blake screams at the floor. "Now! Whatever's in there is going to melt you alive!"
"I could use a hand, Sherlock!" She cries back. "Nothing's budgin'!"
Everything happens in a flash. The older man lunges forward and grabs for his gun. Instinctively he wrenches his hand to the side, striking him in the face with the other and sending him slamming backwards onto the floor. The gun skids out of his grasp on the carpet, but he doesn't have time for it. He whirls around, expecting the other to jump him, but she turns and flees through the open door. Jonathan Crane has vanished. He can hear his footsteps thundering down the hall. He looks to the door, then to the secret entrance, then to the door. If he gets away...if he loses this chance...
"Blake!"
"...Hold on, Harleen!"
The tunnel leading down is too narrow. He could take hours trying to kick or carve it open. The floor, however... is just weak enough. He shouts a warning for her and grabs the couch. It's fucking heavy, but adrenaline has a way of turning an ant into a mountain. He bends his knees and hauls it up over his head, holds it for a long, precarious second, and slams it back down. An ear-splitting crack. He lifts it up again, even though his arms are on fire with the strain, and drops it again. A deafening crunch. The floor cracks, then caves in.
"Holy crap!"
He hopes he didn't hurt her. The Scarecrow could be long gone by now, but he attempts as best he can to yank back the couch now sinking halfway through the floor. His previously inhuman strength has all but left him and he has to grind his heels into the carpet, heaving backwards with all his weight in a desperate bid to take advantage of the huge hole he just made. The couch's weight suddenly gives and he slams back on his ass. Harleen's head pokes out a moment later. She must've pushed it up. The gap is just wide enough to move through...and wide enough to show something like green smoke creeping out.
"Here. Here!" He lunges forward, reaching down to her. "Grab my hand!"
Even through the mask the scent of burning paper and something much sicker makes him want to vomit. Harleen is blinking and rubbing her face when she clambers back on the carpet, slapping on the smoke clinging to her jacket and starting to melt it shiny. Crane wasn't bluffing.
"Where's that son of a...?!" She coughs. "I swear I'll-"
"Come on." He reaches out to tug at Harleen's jacket, then thinks better of it. "We have to evacuate the building."
"But Crane...!"
"I know! But look at your shirt..." Is it acid? Poison? Something else? Another minute or two and she could've had the mask welded to her face. Judging by the round-eyed horror he glimpses in her eyes as they leave the room, her imagination is connecting the dots, too. "Everyone here is going to burn alive."
Harleen goes one direction. Blake bolts down the other, past multiple doors and around corners. There has to be a fire alarm. Something that could get everyone out as quickly as possible. He almost sings when he sees it protected under glass near the entrance -- he slams his elbow into it and yanks down the handle. Almost immediately people start opening doors and peering out in alarm. Harleen is caught between hollering at them to leave and yelling into her phone to Tatsu to meet them when he finds her again.
It didn't go to plan, she's saying. They have to leave and try again some other time.
The alarm howls through the weak walls. Dogs are now barking into the cacophony and voices are starting to be raised. Now that everyone is leaving proper he goes back to find Aisha where he left her, still out cold, and hefts her in his arms. She's surprisingly light (no, not surprisingly-) and he manages to find someone who knows her. It's the best he can do right now.
He finds Harleen outside. Blake looks around frantically, even though he knows the man is long gone. With a start he realizes he doesn't have his gun. Damn it. It must've fallen down the sudden hole he had to make to get Harleen out.
"Where's Tatsu meeting us?" He asks, disappoint souring his voice. "Did you find any evidence below you could bring with you?"
"Just a few things I pocketed." She says as they run through the small apartment square toward the front gate. "Everything else went up in flam-."
They both screech to a halt. Crane is standing in front of the gate. He's wearing what looks like a burlap sack over his head. A knotted scar runs down and up the front, some twisted smile, and he can just make out the man's eyes peering through the front holes. ...No. Not Crane. Scarecrow.
"I don't think I can let you leave, officer." Even his soft voice manages to carry through the chaos bubbling behind them. "Your visit is much too short."
"I'm no officer." Blake scoffs. The man must be pretty sharp to pick up on his prior training. "You'll wish I were."
"In a few minutes you won't be able to keep any secrets from me." There's a canister in his hand. A quick glance at the top and it's already been twisted open. There's no visual to latch onto, though. Not like the green haze that's still filling up his office and no doubt melting everything it touches.
"We got masks, don'tcha remember?" Harleen adds, tapping hers for effect. "And, for the record, it works great." The man's shoulders tremble. He's laughing.
"No..." Blake breathes. "...The complex."
"Well, aren't you clever." Scarecrow says with a sardonic clap of his hands. "Here I was prepared to clue you in on all my little traps, but you've spared me a monologue." His voice darkens. "We'll try the less is more approach, then."
Like flipping off a faucet the noise in the air dwindles down to almost nothing. Blake risks taking his eyes off Scarecrow to look around him in growing horror. The people that had been milling out of the apartment, possessions under their arms and phones to their ears, start acting...strange. They've stopped in their tracks. Some are looking to each other in confusion. Others are clearly looking at...nothing. One starts crying, an elderly man, breaking down into a howling wail that makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. A missing tire. A closed bud. Everything is out-of-place.
"The hell do you think you're doing!" Blake whirls back around, staring the man straight through his tattered, moldy mask. "Don't take this out on them!"
"They invited me here with open arms." Scarecrow says, cruelly indignant. "I'm simply giving them what they wanted."
"They're gonna lose it." Harleen says in a rush. "We'll have to knock 'em out, Sherlock. They're gonna lose it."
"Risk it?" He doesn't take his eyes off Scarecrow now. Not with him still a few feet away. "Harleen, there's only two of us. That's not enough!"
"You're preachin' to the choir. How else we gonna save 'em and catch the bastard?" She snaps. "You have sleep darts, don'tcha? Give 'em to me!"
He pauses for only a moment, then pulls his remaining pistol out of his pocket and tosses it to her. Then he turns to Scarecrow. He can't see the man's face, but the sudden stiffening of his posture as Blake runs full-tilt toward him tells him everything he needs to know. The man turns, leaps over the broken gate, and flees.
Scarecrow is rushing toward a cheap red car is just across the way. If Blake had his standard pistol he'd shoot his tires. Maybe his legs. All he has is his adrenaline and the complete, utter rage that someone would leave an entire complex to drown in poison. Unfortunately for Crane, the detective was used to working with very little.
The man doesn't make it three feet in front of the car before a brick goes straight through the side-window, missing him by an inch and sending glass shattering everywhere. He spins around in alarm, only to duck as another flies straight at his head. Blake picks up another, ignoring the agonizing burn in his arms, and hefts it.
"End of the line, Crane."
"Going to have a word with her..." He hears him muttering frantically as he stumbles backwards. "Listen to me, listen to me, damn it, this is not what you think-"
He dives to one side as Blake sends the brick straight at his head. The bastard is slippery, barely getting out of the way and getting a massive dent where he was standing. He ditches the car and runs, but they both know it's only a matter of time. He was going to smash the motherfucker's head clean open.
"Just listen to me-" He gasps when Blake closes the gap between them. The river beneath the bridge roars before him, matching the pounding blood in his ears. "You could see them again!"
Blake lifts his last brick, then hesitates.
Scarecrow doesn't continue, still huddled and waiting for a blow, then looks up at him through trembling hands when it doesn't come.
"My formula isn't perfect yet." He pants, mask twitching fitfully with each breath. "I have been working on it for nearly half my life and it's closer to a breakthrough than ever before." He sits up a little, though doesn't stand, not with Blake still shaking with anger with a brick in his hand not a few inches away. "You're familiar with my work. What it does. ...Did they seem real?"
His mother in her favorite gray coat in the flickering light of the streetlamp. The voice of his father, that low drawl flecked with the accent he just barely learned how to hide, asking for his attention and dissipating into nothingness at Blake's barbed words. The feel that his grandmother could be just around the corner.
"Memories. Preserved perfectly in your mind, able to be accessed with naught more than a simple breath. Nobody would ever suffer another loss, would they?"
Just like that, the seed of an ugly thought is planted in his head. Young John Blake, angry little John Blake, pushed from orphanage to orphanage with a gaping hole in his life where his parents used to be. What would've changed if the anger hadn't overflowed and consumed him for the better part of years? Would he have turned into an aimless little shit that could barely hold a job down when he wasn't trying to run away from his own life? Entered a field that made people fear him for all the wrong reasons? His mind swims with the possibilities. His boys and their patchwork quilt of loss, grief and abuse held together by St. Swithin's dedicated hand. The people here, in one of the worst neighborhoods in one of the worst cities, just trying to find a moment's reprieve. Enough they'd let in a shady doctor blatantly experimenting on them for a break alcohol or weed couldn't fix.
"Bane was wise to leave me alive. Talia saw my potential." Blake can feel the man smiling. "I know you know of her."
His work is sick. But he could...
"We could do much better than this, Blake." He's starting to rise to his feet. "Let's talk."
The brick slides lifelessly from his hands. Scarecrow lets out a slow sigh of relief...then gasps when Blake rears back and slams a foot into his gut. The psychologist hits the ground in a plume of dust.
"Shut up."
Scarecrow hacks fitfully into his mask.
"Harleen isn't telling you the whole story-"
"I don't want to hear another damn thing coming out of your mouth." Blake snaps. "How many people have died because of you? You coward!" He slams his foot into the man's stomach again. Scarecrow lets out a sharp wheeze, huddling in on himself. Little by little righteous rage floods out of him in the form of brutal kicks, an overwhelming violence with no other target than the man curled up on the ground and attempting to covering his head from the blows.
"That's for my neighbor!"
He stomps his heel into his ribs.
"That's for Harleen!"
Another stomp. Something bends.
"That's for everything you did here!"
Another stomp. Something gives. Scarecrow howls.
"You coward-"
"Sherlock!"
Harleen. Blake doesn't turn around. He keeps his gaze firmly on the blood welling up in the mask and turning it a muddy black. Judging by the faint whistle that accompanies each cough, he's broken something.
"Wait, wait-" Harleen says as she stops next to him. "Hold up." He looks at the dirt all over her hands and knees. Finally turns away from Crane to look at the complex. He can see people crowding about at a safer distance. The faint keen of a siren sounds a ways away. Camera flashes blink like weak stars intermittently in the chaos. It's a faint realization he has that nobody is going to know what truly happened here.
"Don't kill 'im." Harleen is saying. "We-"
Scarecrow takes the sudden lull to lunge up at them from where he lays in the grass. A knife flashes. Harleen shoves Blake back, even as he shouts in alarm and tries to grapple the man. Like a well-oiled machine they subdue him together. Blake with one last knee into his stomach. Harleen with a mean right hook to his face. He hits the ground and doesn't get back up again.
"I was gonna say we still need 'im..." She pants.
"I know." Blake finally says. He slumps onto his knees, suddenly boneless and breathless. "I know. I don't kill unless I have to." Harleen stands beside him, leans down a little and pats his shoulder. After all the fear and anger, the soft touch is actually welcome.
"...though I can't say the thought sounds so good now." She finishes. "That's what I like about you, doll." She glares down at the psychologist. "Dunno if I would've stopped."
"It wasn't easy." If not for his mask he'd spit on the man. "Sick fuck."
Scarecrow is limp. Likely passed out. Now that the rush of adrenaline is gone he's left instead with the frightening knowledge that his anger got the better of him. Even though it was justified. More than justified. He couldn't lose control like that again. Not after... No, no, he didn't have time to self-analyze. First things first. First thing...
"Have you gotten ahold of Tatsu?" He manages to ask.
"She'll be here in a few." She picks at the slash in her jacket. "Dang it. I liked this top." She rubs her arm. He can just make out a thin cut. Negligible compared to what could've happened. "You still in one piece, doll?" She looks him over. He shrugs weakly.
"Yeah. I kind of want to vomit, though."
"Well, don't vomit yet. 'Cause we're gonna drink ourselves stupid tonight."
"You know...I think I'll join you on that."
Harleen looks at him with a growing smile curving her eyes. He slowly grins in return. They start to laugh, shakily at first, then dissolve into full-tilt howling that could probably be heard from the complex. They did it. They captured the Scarecrow. It's tempting to slump down onto the ground and rest, right then and there, but he knows if he does he'll break the world record for longest nap ever taken.
"Have they left the complex...?" He's still watching the activity beyond the field. "They're still way too close."
"Most of 'em should've." She looks exhausted. Even her pigtails seem to be drooping. "Tried to tell 'em not to breathe the air, but some didn't listen." The shame in her voice is enough for him. After all this, it's enough. She just did an incredible thing for Gotham. Something people wouldn't even appreciate properly.
"...Thanks, Harleen." Blake rubs his hair. "I know you wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, but you still gave it a shot. So many more could've..." Could've? Shit, it was happening right now. If he deigned to just look over his shoulder and watch the chaos from a distance.
"I'm an old-fashioned kinda gal, but it ain't always the way to do things." She scratches at the writing on her bat. Goodnight on one side. Sleep Tight on the other. "Think I should listen to you more."
He sees a car heading their way. It must be Tatsu. He hope she brought some friends, because he's not entirely sure they're out of hot water. He really doesn't like how much green smoke is rising into the air. They're still not that far away, either, and even a sniff of the stuff could mess them up. He decides not to take off his mask until he's well across the river.
"Hopefully this will get enough attention to rile up some sort of action." He says, rubbing grit from his hands. "We're not even close to done."
Harleen doesn't say anything. Nothing but a soft tap-tap. He glances sideways at her. She's tapping her bat into the other palm thoughtfully. Blue eyes looking at him much like she looked at...
"Lotta old-fashioned folks in Gotham." She says, turning to him and holding her bat up. "You think a kid's gonna change my mind about you?"
"What...are you talking about?" He says, holding up his hands for good measure. Her eyes flash with a sudden wrath and he takes a step back.
"He ain't yours, puddin'."
"What the-"
"You thought I was waitin' for you to come save me?" She's holding the bat like a batter waiting for a good throw. "Like a little wedding cake topper?" He leans back when she swings. The air whistles sharply. She swings again. He stumbles on something he can't see and almost loses his footing. His heart is pounding a dent into his chest.
"What are you doing?!"
The bat swings down in a vertical arc and hits the ground. He grabs it. Tries to yank it out of her grasp or get her losing her balance, whichever blessing comes first. After a vicious struggling match she simply flings it to the side and lunges at him like a rabid dog.
"Take off that mask and show me who you really are!" He slams onto the ground with the full force of her weight. She's on top of him, grabbing at the mask and wrenching it back. "You two-faced cretin! You clown!" It snaps right off his face. He sucks in a sharp breath, tries to pull it back, gasps anyways as she slams a fist into his eye.
"What's going on?!"
Tatsu! She's pulled up. He opens his mouth to call out, to tell her to get Scarecrow away, only to receive a slug in the eye for his troubles. Stars scatter across his vision and it's only muscle memory that has him curling his legs against Harleen's chest and pushing her up, up and over and off of him. It knocks the wind out of her and buys him just enough time to speak.
"Don't breathe the air..." He wheezes. Where is his mask? "Don't breathe-"
"Stay put!" Tatsu has a pistol pointed right at him with a finger on the trigger. "Get away from Harleen, now!"
"No, no, no, I'm not attacking her-"
"I said stay put!"
'My, oh, my. This is a bit of a mess, isn't it?'
Blake whirls around. Scarecrow? No. He's on the ground as still as a corpse.
'They don't trust you at all...do they?'
Harleen picks up the bat again. Blake stumbles back. Clawing at his hair. Is it inside his head? Outside?
'Where are your friends?'
...Oh.
Too many voices. He can't even make out his own. He's stumbling backwards like a terrified animal, his eyes glued to the metal bat now glinting maliciously above his head, hands scrape on the cold ground in desperation for something, anything, to stave off the inevitable. Gravel. Dirt. Grass. Glass. She's laughing like someone possessed. Like the fact she's about to murder him in cold blood is the best joke she's heard all week.
"You should've killed me when you had the chance, puddin'!"
Like the first few sips of a strong drink he feels his world changing inside and out. So he does what's gotten him this far. He runs. Away from the car and Crane's body and Tatsu's scared face and Harleen's terrifying laughter and the burning complex and the dead grass and-
'You sure this isn't just a bad dream?' Scarecrow's voice follows him every step of the way. 'Why don't you wake up and put all this misery behind you.'
He thinks he crosses the bridge out of the Narrows. He thinks he makes it all the way back to East End where the ground gets hard and everything stinks beautifully of deep city. Someone pushes him. Grabs him? His side slams into a parked car door in his effort to stumble away, then he's gripping it for balance and hacking out winded breaths and looking inside. The bloodied face of his mother stares back, airbag still whistling out its last promise as she gazes at him through unseeing eyes.
'It's hard not to drink your fill, but you can have too much of a good thing, you know.' He somehow hears through his scream. 'I know.' Whispers. 'You miss them...don't you?'
"Stop..." He begs, clutching his mouth with both hands. "Oh, god...stop..."
A gunshot. The scatter of birds. His father is laying on the ground a few feet away, playing cards spilling out of his chest in lieu of blood. They slither down his body and trickle down the uneven sidewalk, slippery under his feet. He trips. An iron taste fills his mouth. The animal part of his brain knows it's time to get somewhere safe. Somewhere hidden. Even as the sight of his grandmother turns his gaze.
"Zip up your coat, boychik." She points to his chest with a white-gloved hand. "I don't know what they teach you at that place."
Oh. Yiddish. He hardly remembers any of it, not when his mother and grandmother took the knowledge with them, but somehow he understands it now, plain as music. He marvels at her, slack-jawed. Short and plump and tidy in her Sunday best, that net she used to tame her curls wrapping behind her head and not a detail out of place. Her baggy eyes wrinkle into dark lines, just like his own, and she points at his coat again with a more insistent finger.
'You never told her you were sorry for all those things you said.' Scarecrow sighs. 'Oh, dearie, me.'
Like a frightened kid, he knows, somehow, she's safe. He walks toward her, slowly reaching out, and feels the terrifying clutter around him melt away. Scarecrow is still speaking, but he's growing quieter, more distant.
"Bobeshi." Blake whispers. He wants to return it to her better than that, but it doesn't go both ways, it seems, the words feeling clumsy and unnatural on his tongue even as they sing in his ears. "Bobeshi, I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all those things I said. I didn't mean a word of it. Not a word..."
She closes the gap between them. None of that eerie walking-yet-not-walking that he remembers back in Old Gotham, no, she's walking and pressing a leathery hand to his cheek. He can feel it. By god, he can feel it as if she were truly flesh and blood before him.
"Too old for savta, eh?" She shakes her head with a smile. "Oh, your hair is so short, now..."
"O-oh. Oh, no, no. Oh, I'm sorry." The words still come out in a rush, each one pulled out of him with the pain and relief of a splinter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I loved you so much. I'm sorry I was so angry and took it all out on you. It wasn't right. It wasn't your fault."
"Robin." She interrupts, gently, pets his hair out of his eyes. The bruise swelling his right twinges in response. "My love. What are these apologies for? You were grieving in the only way you knew how. I never once took what you said to heart." Her voice becomes a little harder. "Your father didn't do very much to help, did he? Always left you home alone to go play cards."
"Yeah. He did. When he wasn't...drinking himself to sleep." The anger bubbles against grief. Clashes like water and oil, nothing but poorly mixed feelings he thought he lay to rest years ago. "I wasn't good to him either, though." He tries to swallow the hot lump in his throat. "I wasn't good to a lot of people. I didn't have a lot of friends. Too angry for...anyone."
"Hey. Hey now." She snaps, holding his chin in one hand much like she did when he could barely reach up to her shoulder. "This is not the Robin I helped raise. Regrets are wind. Howl they may, but they can only push you if you let them."
"...Yeah." He can feel his mouth attempting a smile, though it twitches and twists instead with pain. "But...I just..."
His grandmother holds him up as he sinks down, pushes his face into her shoulder and attempts and fails to gulp back an onslaught of terrible, heaving breaths. Her dress smells like the bread she loved to bake. Her blouse warm and soft and paternal. It undoes any self-control he could have and he cries, howls, twists his hands in the front of her dress in some childish effort to concentrate the misery burning him alive.
"Oh, oh, oh, shh. Come, now." She murmurs against his hair. "Come now. You're all right." She rocks on the balls of her feet, swaying him side-to-side. "You've done so well."
Words come out of him, but they're as torn as he feels. Apologies. Rants. Fears. His already tenuous grip on reality blurs alongside his vision. He can only count the minutes that ticked by through the scratchiness left in his throat when the tears have dried up and left him a shaky, fatigued mess. He leans against her, weak and tired, and listens to his grandmother speak. She never once stops petting his hair.
"You helped save all those protesters at the city hall. They could've been hurt or killed by those explosions." She says with a warm, proud smile. "You quit a terrible profession to do the right thing, no matter how hard it became. So fearless. You've become such a wonderful big brother to all those incredible boys. Your mother wanted you to be a mentor when you grew up, you know. She always said you'd be a role model someday."
"How...how do you know about all that...?" He whispers, pulling back and staring with round eyes. "The city hall, my boys...?"
"Oh, love." Her smile dimples a little. "I've never gone anywhere."
The world around him flickers. Scarecrow's hissing whispers are starting to rise up again, sluggish as ink through paper, and the paranoia that followed his panicked steps before is starting to rise through him again like a chill.
"Hey. Hey now." She says, quickly. "You need to go, love. All right?" She pushes him away, not unkindly, and hastily brushes something off his jacket. "Up you go, now."
"No, I-" He rasps out, trying to grip her and grabbing a fistful of air. "Not yet-!"
"What did I tell you, love?" Still chiding him, even as she falls apart like a flurry of snow. He swallows back his scratchy throat, again and again and again.
"Regrets...regrets are wind." He whispers.
"Regrets are wind." She repeats. Her voice fades into the fabric of gray and black. "Don't look back."
Time forever loses meaning. There's nothing left but raw sensation, leaving as quickly as it arrives, and he doesn't remember even a moment when his brain was able to piece anything together. His palms sometimes scrape rough, wet ground. Something damp soaks into the knees of his jeans. He moves away from where his grandmother used to stand. Away from the car holding his mother frozen in time. Like the aftermath of a wreckage he slogs through and away from the memories lining his peripheral vision, every last one tempting him to stop and stare.
Where there should have been a neighborhood street has transformed into the rushing water of sewers. Tom has washed up nearby, the water licking the edge tugging fitfully at his red jacket. Maybe if he reached out and touched him he would breathe again. Join Reilly over dinner like he used to. But he has to move forward.
He stumbles on a brick, the salmon pink crusted with a darker stain, and he can't look now. Can't follow the trail of flecked blood to its source. But he's not Blake. Not anymore. He's merely an observer in a nightmare, a tourist, watching his world end around him. A freckled boy marks the end of the spotted trail many feet away, sitting on nothing and sticking his tongue out petulantly despite the gaping hole in his head.
Walking. Stumbling. Then he's crawling, laughing, slumping onto his side like a dying animal and curling into himself somewhere dark and cold and everywhere and nowhere and somewhere, probably, maybe.
"Water..."
Somewhere deep in the heart of East End, John Blake clutches himself and slowly goes mad.