Atychiphobia

I did not enter this room under my own power.

 

I pull myself together, quite literally, off of the cold, sterile floor. The environment is sans sound, not even white noise. My surroundings, as revealed by scant luminescence in the ceiling, consist of four walls, three padded, one a window into a darkened room beyond. A closer look reveals various erect objects therein, looming so indistinctly in the shadows, one cannot discern if they are machinery, mannequins, or otherwise.

 

I no longer have the need to fall into deep slumber. SOMEthing has willed me into a dormant state and delivered me to this unfamiliar setting.

 

Two strangers, a burlesque rabbit and a clown with a surly complexion, seem to be joining me in this most precipitate relocation. Both are asleep as I was moments ago. The pervasive aura of nonsensicality about me, in the disjointed things and circumstances that are my company, exert what I must describe as the notion that I have been thrown into an abominable…

 

Wonderland.

 

If this IS indeed his production, Tetch is playing for a most unamused audience. I disperse my form up into the walls and corners, probing for the most minute crevice in which to escape through, to no avail. I return my attention to my fellow inmates. Strangely, the woman, March Harriet, was in league with Tetch when last I looked. The explanation as to why she was now a prisoner alluded me. And this thuggish clown is of no concern at all. I suppose there is no reasonable cause for killing them just yet. Dammit all.

 

Two more half-hearted inspections of my cell later, they have begun to stir. I know not if they are aware of their captor, as I am. As such, appearing before them as the Mad Hatter would be a gamble. Furthermore, as Clayface, they may be intimidated beyond giving me any clues to our situation. It would be wise to meet them on common grounds, as hired muscle myself. A Penguin goon will suffice.

 

The clown groggily rolls onto his back, grunts in realization, and leaps up to face me. Harriet remains seated on the floor, rubbing her eyes and already looking suspiciously bored… impassive?.. with the circumstances. As though she had foreseen all this. I shall question her first.

 

Clown: I’ll bust yer lip if you steps nears me, yah hear?

 

“Penguin Goon” (nasally): Relax guys, we’re in the same boat here. I already checked our escape routes, and it don’t look too peachy. Either of you kno-

 

Harriet (fuming): Hatter. For all his intellect, he’d agree to rob a street musician if the invitation was written in rhyme. WHY did I stick around with that WORM?

 

“Penguin Goon”: … Your BOSS caged us up? You’re saying he was roped into doing’ this by another crime boss?

 

Right then, a voice as appealing as an un-oiled door hinge crackles over the intercom.

 

Crane: A humble doctor is all I profess to be. Contradictorily to others in my field, however, FEARLESS in the realm of discovery.

 

One of the shapes opposite our side of the glass shifts, now evidently the Scarecrow: Hands clasped at his back, and beady eyes flitting between our trio, as he closes some distance between us with painfully deliberate strides.

 

Clown (backpedaling from his aggression): Hey, uh, Mr. Crow, I don’t think you really wanna have me in this box here. Y’see, my boss already has it out for you, an’ me? Well, I don’t like to brag, but I’m somethin’ of his right-hand man! “Chortle”, they call me. He won’t like this too good; not one bit.

 

I keep my composure with great effort. Knowing full-well of Chortle’s employer, and my hand in creating him, I cannot help but ponder if Crane has placed this cruel reminder of my handiwork here intentionally. He had indeed been there the night I awakened the Joker. As if on cue…

 

Crane (fixating solely on me now, his rasp sounding like wet grime trickling out of a rain gutter): For shame, Karlo, fooling the lower class criminals like this. Didn’t you KNOW your captors would spoil your fun soon enough?

 

Myself (whipping into the bloated and towering identity I assume when feeling uninspired): It would seem I’ve been made.

 

Chortle trips backward, his blue hair standing even more so on end. Harriet runs up to the glass and begins pounding at it.

 

Harriet: I know you’re out there, Hatter! You hear me? Let me out this instant! Do you know what this freak can DO to me?!

 

Chortle: To US???

 

Another shadow moves. Tetch whimsically glides into view, that half-sadistic, half-feather-brained look plastered on his freckled face. He makes a sweeping bow to our cell and readjusts his headwear.

 

Tetch (speaking through his teeth, in a singsongy manner): No sense in fretting, my dear. Dr. Crane has assured me this final procedure will perFECT our master plan once and for alllll!

 

Harriet: You’ll never find hired help again after this! I’m the best gun that your pathetic gang ever had!

 

Tetch (still waltzing about): Ah, but there will be no need for super-villainy in Gotham in a few short hours, no no… This is to be The Batman’s last hurrah!

 

Myself: Surely you cannot keep us in suspense, Crane. You do so enjoy… you must pardon my verbiage… to CROW.

 

He shuffles over to a control panel.

 

Crane: Do you want to hear a flaw of yours, Karlo? You see only cinematic solutions to problems. You deceive and thwart and trick, but you always so desperately need the scene to be genuine. You couldn’t accomplish anything if you didn’t receive raw emotion back for your efforts. Perhaps you’ve given up on killing The Batman for that very reason. The stone-cold vigilante that never appreciated your commitment.

 

As Crane and Tetch continue to adjust knobs and dials on their equipment, Chortle and Harriet fruitlessly search our limited space for a means of departure.

 

Chortle (to her): You’ve worked with the guy! You’re telling me you don’t know how to get people in and out of this box??

 

Harriet: I just deliver the goods! You think I’m into this psycho-crap? I’m just paying grocery bills here!

 

Crane (ignoring the babble): It was this study of your character, Karlo, that sparked my latest master plan. My GREATEST plan. You see, though I have developed variations to my toxins over the years, they’ve always brought about the fears festering deep inside my victims. They were REAL fears, Karlo, just like those you instill.

 

He approaches the glass barrier once again.

 

Crane (a brusqueness in his croak): Here’s whats going to happen. You three will be subjected to my most potent gas, as Hatter takes control of your minds. As a general rule of trial and error, the physiologies of a man, woman, and metahuman will do nicely to provide us with any inconsistencies in results. With luck, you will all be the final casualties of our tests to end The Dark Knight’s reign, as we engineer NEW fears for you to experience. WithOUT luck… well, you will all be much too dead to disapprove.

 

Chortle: An’ here I was thinking MY boss wasn’t funny!

 

Crane was not his usual self. Normally, he may have carried a creeping smile upon his stitches as he outlined his schemes, yet something was amiss on this occasion. His voice lacked smugness; his confidence seemed to have evolved beyond simple gloating. Now, a sense of unchecked purpose and drive was woven into his words. He believes unequivocally this to be his very last plot.

 

Myself: And IF you successfully implant phony terror within us, what then, Crane? We both know The Batman WILL have a way to evade the same fate.

 

Tetch: We will not beeeee targeting the big bad Bat this go-around, no siree! I’ve been busy as a beaver creating a new line of teeny-tiny mind control devices, that blend beautifully with Dr. Crane’s concoctions. Like pollen drifting from lovely flowers, they will float into every nostril and ear canal in Gotham…

 

Crane: And then we allow this cesspool of a city to experience the one fear it’s sorely needed; the fear of Batman himself. We will drag his symbol, his legacy, into the muck, and he will live to see thousands die, screaming in horror at the image he’s fought so hard to keep pure.

 

He throws a final lever, and the whirring and buzzing of electronics behind the walls commences.

 

Crane: This is a noble cause. You understand, of course.

 

Chortle: Okay, okay, look, I’m not really one of the Joker’s finest! My name’s Nate, Nathan Cachin! I just signed up a month ago, an’ I got a gal back in Blüdhaven! Listen, I know some corrupt cops in GCPD that’d let you take some death row inmates off their hands for your science project here. Great stuff here, by the way, I rea-

 

A haze begins to occupy the room. I realize now that the out layer of the walls themselves are Tetch’s microscopic devices, each housing a portion of Crane’s gas. They anticipated I could have escaped via ventilation, they had pumped it in from elsewhere.

 

Chortle (perspiring profusely): Um… UH… Deep breaths, guys!

 

Harriet (drawing an obscured knife from her outfit, striving to puncture the glass with it): You idiot, it *stab* gets into your system just *stab* by skin contact! He gave us a damn *stab* POWERPOINT!

 

It is time I resort to less than flashy means of elusion. I dehydrate the clay in my fists, and subsequently begin to pound the window along with Harriet.

 

Tetch (linking his modified hat to the instruments that are invading our bodies): Such unruly children! You’ll go to bed as instructed!

 

Harriet suddenly sinks to her knees, then flat on her stomach. Rapid glances over her shoulders up at the ceiling result in her howling into the floor, her face turning red as saliva flows freely from her mouth.

 

Harriet: DON’T LET ME FALL! OH GOD, THERE’S NOTHING BETWEEN ME AND IT! NOTHING BETWEEN..

 

Crane: Oh dear. It appears you’ve willed incurable casadastraphobia into your old colleague, Tetch. Given the severity of this dosage, she is convinced she will plunge into the sky at any moment. Momentarily, she will try with all her might to burrow into the ground. What do you think the cause of death will be? Heart failure? Concussion?

 

Harriet’s knuckles snap and an even brighter hue of crimson engulfs her forehead as she slams her limbs and body into the tile.

 

Harriet: GET ME AWAY FRO-

 

A snap like celery rings out, and her thrashing halts.

 

Crane (terse): And the next, Tetch?

 

Tetch: I’m getting another signal. The clown drank up his toxins like warm milk; Time for dreamland!

 

Chortle: This is not cool! I want to see your degrees, both of yous!

 

Chortle seizes up. His gaze slowly tilts down himself, his eyes bulging as it reaches his legs. Ungodly shrieking ensues. He topples into the wall, seemingly fumbling for an item in his coat pockets and kicking his legs out as though he had stepped in an anthill.

 

Crane: Stop PLAYING, Tetch.

 

Tetch: But the INfinite possibilities! … Very well. One order of “Batmanophobia”, coming up!

 

Chortle grasps his kneecaps, fingertips digging deep into his skin through his trousers. Amidst the blood-curdling hollering, two wet pops, and he at once sinks back, prominent vacancies where the joints had been.

 

Crane: Genuphobia. Almost laughable.

 

I am next. Little more progress than a hairline rift has come from Harriet’s and my aggression. I feel a tingle as Tetch starts to invade my mind. Before he can establish contact, I strangle the consciousness that is about to be overtaken. It bursts like a cyst, gone in the blink of an eye. The agony is incomparable to any other I have felt.

 

Tetch (stamping his foot): No fair! He went down the rabbit hole!

 

Crane: … Oh. Now that IS very interesting. You severed the persona that Hatter took hold of. But you’re still here with us, aren’t you? We can keep at this until we finally get the REAL you in there. With so many characters embedded in you, you won’t run dry any time soon. You’re a renewable resource, Karlo. Fancy that.

 

I resume feebly pummeling the glass, as Tetch reels in more of my personalities. One after the other, before he can inject them with Crane’s desired phobia, I extinguish them, losing myself in excruciating fragments. I won’t outlast this. They will breach my defenses in no time whatsoever.

 

As all life seems to dim about me, I hear a muffled shattering. My glazed eyes observe a pair of lime green and orange boots crack Tetch right in the cheek, leading him to somersault over the control console and land on his face. His assailant… Walker. Humming his own rendition of the Superman cartoon’s theme.

 

Walker: Daaah dadadadaaah, bum bum bummm. Daaah dadadadaaah… KILL-er Mottthhh!

 

Crane: YOU.

 

He leaps at Killer Moth with hypodermic needles clutched in his glove. Walker retaliates by drawing his cocoon gun. One shot sticks Crane’s hand to his machinery, another grazing his temple and twisting his mask sideways. Crane roars as his free hand also clings to the substance when he goes to remove the disguise.

 

Walker: Heads up Bas!

 

He chucks a detonator at my prison. I am too weak to avoid the blast, as it demolishes the glass and splatters most of myself all about. Walker leaps in, and begins shoveling my matter back into a cohesive pile with his helmet.

 

Walker: Don’t sweat it pal, Killer Moth has never let down loyal customers. Your Moth Signal will function for 5 years without fail, or your money back!

 

Myself (woozy and fighting to expel Tetch’s remaining gadgets from my essence): I am indebted to your punctual rescue, however, I… purchased no alert beacon from you.

 

Walker (face drooping): You didn’t? I got a signal from…

 

I clamber over to Chortle, and extract a small implement from his pocket, sopping with blood.

 

Myself (tossing it to its manufacturer): Your devotee, it would seem.

 

Walker: Well, that’s… not going on my brochure. It’s already hard enough to market protection to all these hoodlums. My prices are equitable! You would THINK it’d be a piece of cake, selling extra help to such a cowardly and superstitious lot…

 

Myself: Is that a paraphrase?

 

Walker: Might’ve been Robert Louis Stevenson.

 

He calls over his shoulder to Crane.

 

Walker (chipper): Nothing personal, Scarecrow, but you can’t go around kidnapping my investors.

 

Slightly more corporeal, I limp towards Crane, who is still furiously pulling at the adhesive. I lean down to his level. The speech pattern I am able to manage is a hoarse gurgle.

 

Myself: The Batman’s wings will be clipped one day, Crane… But not by means of this fraudulent ploy. Gotham’s children should suffer only their sincerest fears…

 

I hold a clawed hand close to Crane’s face.

 

Myself: You concur, of course.

 

He nods, a mixture of loathing and trepidation swirling in his eyes.

 

Walker: You were going to off Batman without ME? Never mind, Crane, DO take this personally.

 

One more shot from Walker’s launcher conks Crane’s head back into the desk, putting him out like the light. With that, I start off for the exit. I can sense the gaping cavity where so many voices within me once resided. Hardly any of them linger.

 

Walker (catching up behind me): Hey, Bas! Take this, on the house. It’s still active.

 

I accept the blemished Moth Signal.

 

Myself (in a voice I do not recognize): … Couldn’t hurt.

 

***

 

} I am delighted to announce that this Killer Moth dialogue has been approved by the man himself. {

Done