The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

31

Dammit, Harleen. If the gas leak call had taken just a few moments longer, we'd both be in the back of the car right now.

Not that that's likely, after I punched the owner. But we'd both be walking home in the rain at least, rather than me alone. In nothing but a short halter dress and soaked right through to the bone.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself to fend off the chill. This is the nicer part of the city, which means two things — alarms and gunshots sound very far away, and there's very few people on the streets.

The paranoid part of my brain points out, less witnesses.

I pull my phone out and call Harleen.

"Hey, how's it going with the billionaire?"

"I punched him in the face and left. Are you home yet?"

"I want to know everything that happened when you get here, okay? Yeah, I'm just speaking to the maintenance guy now. The whole building's been cleared out. We might have to find somewhere else to stay for tonight."

I sigh. "Let's meet up and hit another bar. One without arrogant assholes."

"That'll be impossible to find. But I'm sure we can get one without arrogant assholes worth punching."

I release a short laugh. "Yeah, let's—"

A sudden blow knocks my phone from my hand.

I'm shoved forward, my phone clattering from my hand onto the sidewalk. As I try to turn, another blow hits me in the back, and there's a crunch of glass and metal beneath my feet as I stagger in response.

A hand grabs me by the hair and slams me into the brick wall of a barbershop, knocking all air from my lungs. I try to speak, to scream, but only a hollow gasping sound escapes me.

I turn my neck and strain my eyes and see a figure in black. A cowl.

The Batman.

"Who do you work for?" He asks, voice deep and gravelly.

I cough and strain, deciding if I ever get out of this alive, I'm forcing Harleen to teach me karate. "I have no idea what you mean," I manage to force out.

He slams me into the brick again. I fight back tears. Struggling against him, forcing my muscles desperately to find a way to come loose, fight him off, make my escape.

"I know you've been seeing the Joker."

"Because it's my fucking job!"

"I have ways of making you talk. Now speak, before I force you—"

The hiss of a gas canister. A hint of lemon.

The Batman's hands release me.

I spin around, pressing my back against the brick as I take in the scene. The Scarecrow — my heart performs a flip — grasps the Batman, his jaw tense and eyes alight with a fury I've never before seen. Never expected of him.

The Batman's body begins to rack and spasm, like he's fighting the urge to sink slowly to the ground. He makes frenzied, frantic noises, scrambling in a way I recognise all too well — he's been dosed with fear toxin.

And, I imagine, far more of it than I've ever taken.

"You ever lay eyes on Sienna Moore again, and I'll unmask you to the whole of Gotham," Scarecrow says. "And then I'll kill you. But not before I flay you alive. Slice the skin from your bones. Now fuck off, before I lose my self-control and do it in front of her. I'd like to avoid that."