Chapter Text
Scarecrow was used to waking up restrained. His projects were a way of life that not many agreed with, so being restrained and psychologically evaluated time and time again was a part of his routine by now. So as he opens his eyes he's expected to be met with either nurses or doctors, but he's proved wrong; what greets him instead is complete darkness. This doesn't feel like the work of a government sanctioned organization, not at all. He slams his foot against the ground– the sound echoes. This room is far too big, and he's tied to a chair in the middle of it. That move is familiar, very Rouge-like, therefore… the question is; which one of his unfortunate colleagues did this?– and why?
He's expecting whoever is behind this to enter the room soon, or dramatically reveal themselves from the shadows just to put the extra c in the word creep, but they don't. No one comes for hours on end.
Scarecrow stares into the black abyss unblinking until tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and he has to blink, then he repeats the cycle over, and over again.
How many times has he done this? Enough to sting that's for sure.
Finally after he's almost at the brink of releasing his bladder right onto that forsaken chair a door opens.
He's blinded for a moment by the bright light coming from it. The man that just came in has something playing on his phone; it isn't loud, but Scarecrow can make up bits and pieces. An interview?
The voice is male and it probably sounds angry to a regular person, but he can taste the fear hidden within it.
What do I think about the dock murder? I'm gonna tell you what boy–
That's the first part, the rest is too quiet, or too grumbled or both.
–this is definitely some sort of mafia shit! Shit we shouldn't get ourselves involved with, and as law abiding citizens shouldn't worry about.
A woman tries to interrupt, but she's cut off.
There is a reason all of these bodies can't be identified, and it ain't pretty. Can't say I feel sorry for the fuckers, they were probably a bunch of cunts anyway!
How could you say that!?
What? Babe I'm just telling the truth!
"Enjoying the news Mr. Crane?" The man asks pausing the video and dismissing his phone. His back is illuminated therefore Scarecrow cannot see his features well, but from the voice itself he sounds young. He's wearing a costume– obviously. So it's just like he thought, he had been taken by another villain; a new one.
How… boring.
The door is promptly closed and the darkness greets him once more before a switch is flipped. One pathetic light bulb springs to life above him– it's disappointing. He can only see his feet and a few centimeters into the room, but the walls and therefore any escape roots are still hidden from him.
His kidnapper steps into the light, and Crane can't stop himself; he bursts out laughing.
"Oh dear. I've been taken by a virgin."
"Excuse me?" The man looks truly baffled by the comment and oh my– he really does have expressive eyebrows, that one. His suit is made well enough and strangely it reminds Scarecrow of a bird, but he can't quite tell which one. It definitely is similar to the costumes of bats, so maybe this person isn't a Rogue, but yet another fan that thinks they can make their way into vigilantism without being killed in the process.
"This is your first time doing it, isn't it?" The man's face– the upper part of it since the lower half is covered by a rebreather– twists into displeasure before going blank. He had struck a nerve. He moves towards the wall Scarecrow can't see and picks up something from it. A torture device? It doesn't look like one– it has a strange shape and it's made out of something thin like plastic.
"Maybe, but I'll promise I'll be gentle."
"I think you're a little too young for me."
A soft grunt of disgust hits his ears.
"I promise you Mr. Crane regardless of what you read in your free time this isn't that kind of kidnapping." His voice is flat, but not overly offended perhaps a part of him found the interaction amusing.
Isn't that lovely?
"So I can be certain that the pink rope is just an aesthetic choice?" He wiggles his body inspecting said very pink, yet sturdy restraint. If he noticed it sooner he would've thought it was the work of the clown. Ugh– he's a bit glad it was an amateur that took him instead, if not a little embarrassed.
"It was on sale."
"And that's what you had to cut the budget on?"
The man shrugs.
"Very well so what kind of kidnapping is it? and if I may know; by who?"
"A kind offering mutual aid, and we already know each other, so there is no need for introductions."
He's hit with two opposite signals.
One; Scarecrow definitely doesn't know that boy. Second; his abductor isn't lying.
He gets a raised brow sent his way.
Or at least he believes he's telling the truth.
"Are you interested in hearing the proposition?"
"Not necessarily, no. I don't usually work with newbies. Nothing personal."
"Are you sure it's nothing personal?"
Scarecrow huffs, maybe it's the pink rope, maybe it's the fact that this man strangely looks like a Jokers and Batman's love child, and a person like that surely must be cursed by the universe.
"Positive."
The man starts walking away.
"Wait! I have to relieve myself!"
"I think you done enough of that for today."
He leaves taking the strange device with him.
A day passes. The door opens, locks, and the switch is switched just like yesterday. Scarecrow's lower body is sticky, and the rooms smells horrid, but– well. His captor is wearing a rebreather, and he doesn't seem to care about that fact.
"Oh~ look who decided to leave his room, have you taken the dishes to the sink at least?" He tries to make the best impression of a suburban woman, and when the man doesn't react he crosses one very generic backstory off of his list.
This person is unsure, but persistent, and said unsure-ness doesn't seem to be caused by a lack of faith in one's abilities. He isn't scared of Scarecrow, just slightly annoyed. His captor doesn't want to be doing this then– he has to. Is someone making him… no, that's not it. What a tough nut to crack.
"Do you want me to come later?"
"That's fine. I don't know if you know this, but I'm great in solitary confinement." Like a cacti deprived of water. He had done enough of it to get used to the silence, and come back more thirsty, more… creatively charged let's say each time around.
"Good, since this is not what I have planned for you. Not exactly."
He comes closer, there's a slight tilt to his body one Crane noticed yesterday too, like an old injury. His abductor has a habit of positioning himself slightly to the left instead of standing straight up when they are talking.
There is something wrong with his ear; he realizes, and the fact Scarecrow's wearing his mask isn't helping with this man's maybe hearing imparity.
He moves closer than ever before. He's holding that– thing, and here's that sweet drop of fear brewing in his belly, fear of the unknown. It's been so long that he almost wants the thank this young man. In these days only Batman can make him feel this way.
"Changed your mind about considering my offer?"
Goosebumps rise on his skin. A glorious feeling.
"Why? Is my captor chickening out before the best part–" he clicks his tongue. "You can't be shy about torture in this business."
This individual knows how to cause harm. Crane can see it in how his fingertips twitch and–
The man shrugs and promptly rips Scarecrow's mask off. It happens so quickly that he chokes on air that assaults his nostrils.
"Hello, Johnathan."
No.
No, no, no, no! Don't call me that; his brain screams, yet he stays quiet.
He keeps quiet. Like a child.
"I thought you said we shouldn't be shy."
His heart starts beating faster.
The words are cruel, angry, vicious.
The man grabs at the back of his hair and tugs his head up. Scarecrow wiggles only a little bit just for the sake of it, he knows he can't stop whatever is going to happen anyhow. The strange device is secured onto his forehead and then his upper and lower eyelids get tugged open by the thin, long four clasps that protrude from it. It's makeshift, but it reminds him of something that could be used in coercive conditioning therapy. Which begs a question; what exactly will he be forced to watch?
Something is dropped into his eyes and he involuntarily jolts feeling a bit paranoid at the thought that the stranger might want to blind him.
"It's just eye drops." He assures, but who knows? It might be hallucinogens… that's what Scarecrow would do.
"You still have some time to change your mind."
"Think you can scare me?" Was that a tremble in his voice?– no. It can't be.
"Not at all… I just want you to simply–" he takes out a small controller and the chair Crane's sitting at starts spinning ever so slowly. There's a twitch on the man's face, he's smiling underneath that mask, but it's tired, worn out rather than sadistic. "–look at yourself."
What.
What!?
All of the lights turn on and what he's greeted with is a room covered by mirrors.
"See you in the morning Mr. Crane. I hope that by then you'll reconsider my proposition, and If not… no, I shouldn't spoil it."
Instinctively he tries to cover himself, but his hands are bound, and he can only close his eyes far enough to do a pathetic half blink. He is forced to watch. Constantly.
He looks disgusting, his skin is gray and sweaty and the not-ginger, not-brown shade of his hair looks even more awful in this lighting. Strands of his bangs are greasy enough to stick to his forehead and look like vines growing on a dead body rather than a living person.
It's horrid.
He wasn't lying when he said they know each other it seems, but how?
"You can't just–" the door is closed. He left. He left even before Scarecrow could protest.
"You can't just leave me here!"
His own reflection twists into something cruel– mocking, so very pathetic, and he spins around, around, around–
He stops, or rather the chair stops. Scarecrow chokes on his own saliva unable to release anything else from his stomach because after his first time vomiting it stays awfully empty. His head is tilted down as much as he can while restrained, but he can still see the first row of mirrors. He's trying not to look at his own face, if he focuses his gaze on his pants for example it's much easier to imagine someone else sitting here instead of himself.
His captor steps inside. He's wearing pajamas– Batman pajamas along with the rebreather from before.
"Let me guess; budget cut?" His own strained voice echoes in the room.
"No. It was gifted to me."
"How sweet~"
The device is taken off of him, and he wants to puke from how much comfort it actually brings him to have it off. He closes his eyes immediately.
"How would you rate your solitary confinement experience?"
His shoulders tremble and he can't stop it, his stomach wants desperately to escape by his throat, and talking hurts so much, but he manages to say;
"Truly exquisite. It's enlightening to finally have someone smart to talk to." He sends his reflection a quick wink before he lets his head tilt down once more.
"Is that so…?"
…
"Well, since it obviously weren't your cries of desperation that woke me up I'll leave you to it Johnathan."
He makes his way towards the exit.
"No!"
The man stops, but he stubbornly stays facing the door.
"I– I might be willing to hear you out."
The restraints come off, he gets up on his shaky feet and tries his best not to fall down when a damp rug is thrown his way.
"Turn around."
"I'm not turning my back to you."
"Then at least dim the room!"
He does, and it's a bit more bearable to take his clothing off ,and wipe himself down good enough not to stink up the room any further. His abductor is looking to the side he's still paying attention, but not enough to stare.
"My mask. Where is it?"
"I'll give it back to you once we talk."
"We won't talk if I don't get it back now."
…
"Fine. Stay here." As if he could go anywhere else.
By the time he comes back Scarecrow is already dressed up in clean clothing. It's of similar enough style to what he usually wears, and it smells vaguely of charity.
His mask is thrown his way.
…
"What? I dried cleaned it."
"It was clean."
"No it wasn't I dragged you through a sewer."
"What about the budget?"
"It was disgusting enough that I tweaked the budget."
Scarecrow frowns just to cover it with his now daisy smelling mask.
They stand while they talk because there is nowhere else to sit besides that nasty chair.
"I need a chemist."
Scarecrow snorts.
"There's plenty of these in Gotham."
"Well I need you specifically."
"Do you have me for a cheap whore?"
"No I do not. You don't have the qualities to become one, nor do you contribute to this city nearly enough as a citizen to strive for such a title I'm afraid."
"Clever way to call a man ugly. Oh– but what is this angry vain on your forehead? Did I hit a soft spot? Did your mamma do some mouth work on the side, and that's why you're so awfully rude?"
The man opens up his lips to reply, but Crane stops him. There's something…
"No. I see that now, there's that… rich aura about you. Interesting. I should've guessed after the dry cleaning."
…
"I'm right, am I?
"I need a chemist."
"No, no Mr. Fancy. You don't need a chemist, you need me. Why?"
"I need a Fear Toxin that would work on a particular part of the brain– specifically the one responsible for… let's say; repressed memories." He says it in one breath desperately trying not to tap his left foot against the flooring.
"And what exactly do you need that for?" The man stays quiet, his bright blue eyes burrowing into Crane's own corneas.
"Oh– it's for you." This is getting interesting.
"I still don't see what's in it for me."
"I'll protect you from the Bat, and trust me if whatever is in my head doesn't get out Batman will be the last of your concerns."
"Don't tempt me."
The man groans before glancing at the door as if wondering if he should lock him up for a little longer. Eventually though he lets him leave, and the lair he's greeted with when he walks through that door is definitely not what he was expecting.
Robin has been people watching more often now, hoping he'll spot Heron's face somewhere in the civilian crowds. He really shouldn't be so bothered by this, bad missions happen, and if he wasn't weakened by both the gas and the previous fight he surely would've beaten the man… but that wasn't what frustrated him the most, not really. The main stupid thing that kept him up at night in this case was that; he still couldn't draw their new villain. Every time he tried the face would come out looking wrong, wrong enough that he had to toss the sketchbook page away and start over.
It was official. He hit an art block, and the only way for Damian to get over one was by hitting people, so he spent the last days doing just that. Punching criminals a bit harder than he used to while reminiscing about the duct taped edges of his sketchbook coming loose.
He was watching an older woman with a big fluffy dog cross the street from the rooftop placed across the police station where Nightwing was currently talking with The Commissioner Gordon.
Scarecrow's goons were keeping quiet, the only thing they shared is their lack of knowledge about Heron. They didn't believe he and their boss knew each other, and some even shared they were knocked out by the perpetrator just like Nightwing was, which made this case a… kidnapping of sorts instead of a rescue. By the simple terminology at least. They definitely won't call it that, but it's slightly amusing to think about, Damian had to admit.
Nightwing walks out of the station and waves towards him holding up a bag of donuts.
He grimaces at the sight a bit put off by how greasy they look even from a distance, yet his traitorous stomach grumbles all the same. At least Nightwing's far enough to not notice and by the time he lands on the roof next to Damian his stomach is calm again.
"I told him not to, but you know how he is. We have six in total I think, all different flavors." He shakes the see-through baggie.
"I don't want donuts. I want answers." Damian tells him with perhaps too much venom because Grayson just laughs instead of taking the refusal seriously.
"You sound like someone that wants a donut."
He eventually relents to Nightwing's offer and picks one for himself– not because he wants to, he just knows that he wouldn't get anything from the older vigilante if he didn't. The pastry is sticky, covered with toasted nuts on top which are coated in caramelized brown sugar, and it's filled with plum jam. He tries his best to keep his expression blank as he takes a bite.
They leave the roof for a higher one away from a station. Damian finishes the donut in the air leaving his glove greasy. He wipes it against the building wall.
Nightwing's already got his hands on the second donut. The first one he ate was covered in sugar and cinnamon without any filling– this one has freeze-dried strawberries on top so it's probably filled with jam.
"What did the Commissioner say?" Damian asks, moving away from the tempting sweets.
"Not much. One of the boys allegedly saw Heron near that warehouse a couple of weeks ago, thought he was one of us just in a new costume. That's about it regarding our new guy."
"And the dock incident?"
"Still nothing– well there is something, but it's more of a preventive measures type of mission than an actual case lead, but who knows? Maybe we'll get something from the guy."
"What?" What guy? Can he stop being so vague? Nightwing has a problem with thinking that each and every one of them can just read his mind on command.
"You saw that conspiracy theory video before it got taken down, right? The one with the shaggy looking teenager talking about how the police are withholding information, and the murders are most likely caused by an extraterrestrial being?"
"I don't think I got to that last part." He scrunches his nose.
"Doesn't matter–" Damian thinks that it actually does matter. If this person has proof of aliens being involved then they must take them for questioning. "– what matters is that this kid keeps coming by the station, and getting into places he definitely shouldn't be snooping at for that channel of his. Commissioner asked us to speak to him and try to discourage the guy so he doesn't get hurt."
Looks like he got his hopes up for nothing.
"If he is nothing but a fool we shouldn't waste our time."
Nightwing gets up quietly and slowly starts turning around, extending his hands towards the city, and when he finally is satisfied with showing Robin how underwhelmingly quiet it is he makes one last gesture towards his earpiece that's been quiet for…
"Two hours! Two hours of silence Robin, we might as well do that before we call it a night."
"Fine." He manages to grumble out through his tight throat. "But we'll treat this man with no pity if he refuses to listen."
Nightwing smiles.
"And we are not sharing these." Damian promptly snatches the donut bag away before he throws himself off the roof.
Nightwing frowns, but it doesn't take him long to get over his hurt feelings and follow after Robin.
The apartment building is surprisingly underwhelming. It isn't the best part of the town, but it isn't the worst either. Robin wants to go through the window, but Nightwing insisted on knocking first.
"Do you hear it?"
Let's not assume things.
Like your sort isn't the one assuming things. I heard what you talked about boy and it ain't helping anyone. No one's looking for these folks, and if no one's looking that means they ain't worth making a fuss about.
I think we're done here–
No we aren't! You think you can just come here with your camera and–!
Damian shoulder slams the door open and rolls inside swords at the ready.
"Wait no–" Nightwing steps in behind him looking weirdly discouraged… an open laptop sits on a coffee table near the front door. A video of an interview is playing on a loop.
"We broke the guy's door for nothing." His brother sighs refusing to walk in any further into the room. "Is anyone here!? We um– we come in peace?"
"Please if someone was here we would've already noticed. It smells awful, do you think there is a body in the closet?" Damian eyes it. The poor piece of furniture is overflowing with clothing, and it looks like the screws are barely holding it up.
"That's just how all student flats smell like. I'm pretty sure."
"Pretty sure?"
"Lived experience."
"Gross."
"You asked."
"I didn't."
The room Robin's standing in is small. It contains a bed as well as a coffee table, a couch and a desk. It is a sad excuse for a bedroom, and the kitchen area isn't even separated by a door, just a beaded curtain– which on its own looks nice, but it doesn't suit the place.
He walks up to the laptop. In the interview a blonde haired teen is talking to a large man and a small woman on what looks like a Crime Alley street. The discussion becomes heated and filled with curse words and eventually ends in a fist fight.
"Robin–" Nightwing whispers.
"Give me a moment. I don't think this one was published." He reaches out to pause the video.
"Robin!" Damian turns around both at the insistent yelling and a sound of reloading a gun. There's a pathway in the corridor, one that wasn't there before, an entrance to an extra room and from there a tip of a rifle is pointing in the direction of Nightwing's head.
Robin's eyes meet the attackers and it is the same young man from the laptop. He has a bruise on his cheek, his light hair is disheveled and he looks scared, but his hold on the gun is surprisingly precise for a civilian.
"Sorry we barged in like this–" Nightwing says slowly turning to face the blonde. He doesn't stop him, and his finger stays firmly on the trigger. Robin doesn't think he'll shoot but just in case he prepares himself. "–Robin is a little quick to action, we heard a–"
"What do you want?" The rifle shifts its position now pointing towards Grayson's shoulder. That's good.
"We are looking for Bernard Dowd." Damian tells him before Nightwing has time to prolong this nasty situation any further.
"Well, you found him." The blonde huffs.