[1181] Fear and Delight

My crits: [1433](https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1rwac80/1433pepperpops/) [2349](https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1rzolfh/2349\_bluebell\_breath\_chapter\_1\_twentyone/)

Long time lurker, occasional critiquer, first time poster. Hi.

This is the opening of a fanfiction I'm working on. It’s set in an Alternate Universe, and is a sequel to a one-shot I wrote a while back, but I tried my best to make it make sense even to a casual reader unfamiliar with Batman comics canon or my previous fanfic. So I’d actually appreciate some critique from people who don’t know much/anything about canon.

I'm looking for feedback on clarity, prose flow, and whether the worldbuilding makes sense on its own. But any and all suggestions for improvement are welcome and appreciated. Don’t hold anything back! Thank you in advance.

***

The soundproofed basement was consumed by darkness. No windows. No vents. Just black velvety nothingness trying to crawl inside orbital cavities, pressing against the eyeballs like thumbs itching to pop them out. But right before it could, Scarecrow would yank the cord of a vintage lamp that stood, bolted, in the middle of the room.

*Click!* Its glow would softly, obscenely highlight the barest hints of nervous sweat rolling down bobbing Adam’s apples. He lived for these flickers. Five street-though career criminals stood rigid, broad shoulders hunched, chins tucked, braced for a blow they couldn’t meet. One kept swallowing, dry and noisy, like a man trying to down a spoonful of broken glass. Another kept shuffling in place, without rhythm, compulsive. Scarecrow smirked under his mask. Fear in its purest form was an intimate thing. It stripped a man bare. It undid him. And in that undoing, Scarecrow saw something he could call beautiful. But he would only savor the sight of such imposing men wracked by a thousand tiny tremors of exhaustion and anxiety for mere seconds before plunging them into darkness anew. *Click!*

In the dark, Scarecrow was the God of Fear. His prey’s only job was trying to stay calm. Technically, he wanted them to succeed. But failures were so much prettier than successes. This batch of brutes would “graduate” soon enough, but for now they were his to “educate.”

He moved swift and silent as smoke, unpredictable as a nightmare. With every brush of his fingers, he dosed them with trace amounts of powdered Fear Toxin. Just enough to blur the edges of reality. He was not the Batman, but he could herd them like cattle, pressing them into one another’s personal space until they tripped over themselves to scatter. Take one down. Leave him twitching in the center of the room. Flash the light so the others could see. Plunge them into darkness again. Rinse and repeat until he deemed them desensitized enough not to be completely useless in the Bat's presence.

The reinforced metal door at the top of the stairs screeched on its hinges. Sound and light flooded in. The ceiling fluorescents blazed to life, brighter than a flashbang, signaling the end of their session. The henchmen sighed in relief before their boss even cleared the first step.

Oswald Cobblepot, known in the underworld as The Penguin, stood as small and round as his namesake. When he reached the basement floor, he stepped aside, tapped the sharp ferrule of his umbrella against the concrete once, and barked a single word: “Out!”

His men bolted, stumbling over themselves to obey.

That was the more pressing reason Cobblepot had use for his services. The Penguin knew how to rule through fear, but he lacked the psychological finesse to make his men love their chains. Serve him and get paid. Cross him and suffer. The kind of management that inspired compliance in the hour of surveillance and treachery in the shadows. By correlating the cessation of terror with Cobblepot’s arrival, Scarecrow was conducting covert classical conditioning. It was the perfect invisible leash, more reliable than loyalty purchased with currency.

Cobblepot smiled, revealing jagged teeth beneath the beak of his nose. “You’re exceeding expectations, Doctor Crane. I can see the difference already. I like it. Fear keeps them sharp.” He tapped the umbrella against his palm. “And loyalty keeps me rich. You’ll be compensated generously.”

Scarecrow didn’t thank him for what he was owed. The Valentine’s Day scheme that had landed him back in Arkham had bled his funds dry. No money, no chemicals. No chemicals, no Fear Toxin. The Batman would have to wait. He needed to work. Not for the data, not even for the thrill, but for the means. He had spent most of his time after his escape three weeks prior under Cobblepot’s mansion, with little more than a work bench and a steel shelving unit cluttered with glassware fogged with chemical residue as equipment. Instead, he gestured to a mess of books, magazines, and documents piled the workbench behind him. “Those texts you acquired have proven insufficient. I requested mythology, not ornithology.”

“A wing is a wing, Doctor. Between my aviary upstairs and the books and Audubon magazines I lent you, you have access to more structural analysis of flight than any occultist could offer.”

“Real wings require real physics. Hollow bones, precise air currents, specific musculature.”

“He doesn’t fly, does he? He drops and falls controlled. Never takes off from the ground. I’ve watched enough nocturnal hunters to be able to tell. Mythology may tell you what ancient civilizations named such creatures. I can tell you how they move.” Cobblepot twirled his umbrella, the ferrule catching the light. “Though I still don’t get why you’re suddenly so interested in figuring out his methods of flight when you usually just try to pick his brain.”

“When I last got caught, I saw the abyss that sprouts from Batman’s back in the shape wings up close. Do you want to know what it looks like?”

Despite himself, Cobblepot leaned closer.

“I couldn’t tell you!” Scarecrow continued. “Because I—and everything else in the universe other than darkness—stopped existing when Batman wrapped them around me. I'm convinced I'll never understand his psyche enough to frighten him unless I uncover the truth of what he is.”

“Lucky for you, I believe in investing.” Cobblepot twirled the umbrella again. The ferrule caught the light and threw it, dagger-like, across Scarecrow’s eyes. “So I’ve hired someone to assist you. A specialist.”

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, deliberately slow to drag out the noise. An albino woman stepped through. Trench coat buttoned to the throat, gloves drawn past her wrists, not an inch of skin showing below the chin. She descended the stairs without a sound, stopping a step behind and to the right of Cobblepot.

Scarecrow deeply appreciated the disturbing theatrics.

“Dr. Linda Friitawa,” Cobblepot announced, “holds a Ph.D. in mythology and occultism. She’s studied the Bat’s tactics and abilities from the patterns in eyewitness accounts, and found connections you might find… illuminating.”

Scarecrow addressed her, slow, mesmerized. “What are your findings, Dr. Friitawa?”

“I believe Batman is linked to the demon Barbatos though they are not, as it’s sometimes theorized, the same kind of entity,” she said, her voice a dry whisper. “But I must be clear: I can only work at night.”

“Heliophobia,” said Cobblepot, waving a hand as if to dismiss the matter as inconsequential.

Scarecrow’s breath caught in his throat, sharp as a hook.

“I’ve spent years avoiding the sun, inside libraries and basements.” She appraised the so-called lab. “This place is perfect.”

Scarecrow stared at her. She didn’t blink much, and when she did, it was like a drape closing over a window in a room no one was meant to see. He felt something unfamiliar squeeze his insides. Something like kinship. Or hunger.

“I look forward to working together, Dr. Friitawa.” He removed his burlap mask, revealing the sharp-angled face of Jonathan Crane, and offered her his hand.