Waiting {Open}

[Harvey Bullock]

Harvey Bullock stood stoically in front of the large pile of rubble and girth down at Gotham Heights and called in a few medics and morticians to bag up and clean up the crushed family he had found within the rubble earlier that day.

Lots of buildings, houses, and complexes NEVER could’ve foretold the untimely demise of the city through nature’s harshest natural disasters – the earthquake. It was only inevitable that a few cases of weak infrastructure would be the cause of many untimely deaths within Gotham City – and now he was the one cleaning up the mess. Not that he particularly minded looking after the bodies of the deceased, but it was definitely something he didn’t volunteer for– inside his cholesterol clogged heart he felt a twinge of pain and remorse every time he had to do “clean up work”.

Though of course these types of things were completely beyond his power to control – he always felt shame, guilt, and failure whenever he met face to face with dead bodies. He never liked the idea of people dying under his watch.

He looked down at his watch, five minutes elapsed and he was starting to get antsy. He pulled out from his trench coat pocket a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and tapped out a cancer stick into his palm before flicking out his lighter and setting it ablaze between his puffy lips. He knew he was going to have to stand and wait for these godforsaken – slow-ass – medical people to arrive so he could fill out paper work and take the bodies to the morgue; and he hated waiting – he always felt so unproductive – but he especially hated waiting here. He felt like he needed to leave from here, and fast, he also felt like he needed a drink to wash down the awful clump of disgust in his throat. He had talked to Edward Nigma earlier that day, of course it was a little under the radar but he needed to get this Bat-infestation over and done with, the city needed to rebuild itself, and it’s faith in the GCPD, and getting rid of the Bat before the coming of a greater and better Gotham was needed to revert everything back to the way things were before masked villains came into the picture.

Ten minutes.

He had already finished his cigarette and was smoking his second one in a row. People down at the precinct would nickname him Bullock the Train for all the huffin’ and puffin’ he did smoking cigarettes. It was a bad habit, he would definitely admit, he was always short on breath, his fingers were stained with tobacco and he was probably the least liked patient at the dentist’s office. But smoking had always calmed his nerves; if he didn’t smoke he would be at his most irritable and start snapping at people for the littlest things. Not that he didn’t already, that was already part of his nature, but he would do it ten times worse that he’d make all the rookie police officer’s cry themselves behind the candy bar machine.

Fifteen minutes.

Done with his second stick, he decided to wait another five minutes before reaching in for another one. Thanks to all the crap on the roads and lack of street signs due to the electrical deficiency getting cars from point A to point B was as difficult as multivariable calculus. But after the twenty minute wait, he finally saw the red lights of the coming Gotham General ambulance. Of course there was no sirens screeching or any particular rush for them to get there – seeing as how the family was dead and they wouldn’t be getting up and walking anywhere any time soon – but having to wait for the ambulance to come this late was still perturbing.

Harvey complained about their Devil May Care attitudes and how if they were police officers he would’ve made them meat fodder by the end of the day – but they paid him little mind as they began to move the dead bodies from out of the rubble and into body bags. Harvey curiously looked over their shoulders, but was disgusted to see that some of the body parts weren’t all stuck together and focused his attention to the head mortician and snatched the crumbled paper work from his hands and filled it out grudgingly. After about half an hour of moving bodies from the wreck, then into bags, and then into the van, all the ambulance people got in, followed by the mortician and Harvey. The drivers in front strolled down the streets at an annoyingly slow pace, while Harvey and the mortician, Dr. Hanz, if Harvey recalled correctly, had to sit in the back with the half decapitated and half rotting corpses. He never wanted a drink more badly before in his life.

But finally they had reached the hospital, and lucky for them, it was fortified with Wayne Enterprise Earthquake efficiency. The rich boy of Gotham, sure he had a kind heart for generosity and for beautiful women, but there was something very odd that – never having an earthquake of this magnitude EVER in Gotham – he would ensure all of his buildings would have earthquake proof structures. Not to start any tabloid rumors or anything, but it was as if he KNEW it was going to happen. Not that he believed Bruce Wayne actually knew, he wasn’t necessarily the brains of the operation but perhaps someone inside knew…he rolled the thought around his brain for a little bit till the ambulance workers began opening the back doors and pulling out the body bags. He slowly walked behind the mortician out of the van and behind the body bag lifters and towards the hospital where underneath lied the morgue, the mortician was a short guy who vaguely reminded him of Vladimir Lenin.

Hopefully he wouldn’t get too much of a strenuous night from here, with no masks or bombs or guns, and hopefully he’d be able to get back to his precinct and reward himself with a nice sprinkled donut.

[Selina Kyle]

Death never bothered Selina. She wasn't afraid of it, didn't mind avoiding it for as slong as possible, but definetly didn't fear it. Selina learned at a very young age that death happens. No matter who you are, no matter what you did, death will find you. It's all just a matter of time.

Lately, the streets seemed flooded with death. Not like Gotham was ever a safe place, but lately the city was a chaotic mess. It was worse in the beginning. People just didn't know how to react. Even she didn't. Selina actions were never really black and white. She had a conscious, and a strange sense of obligation to the streets of Gotham city, so it made her life fairly complicated. She's couldn't abandon the city. After the earth quake, it needed her more than she needed it. Especially with Batman gone, she felt obliged to help.

She hadn't stolen a thing since this whole mess started. There wasn't the time, and it was too easy with the city in ruins. Most of her concentration lately had been on the streets. AT first, she helped pull bodies out of the ruble. She did so very discretely. There was technically a warrant out for 'catwoman's arrest, so she couldn't jeoparadize her freedom. As Things in crime alley had gotten worse, so she had spent a fair amount of her free time in the East End.

Actually, at that point she would have rather been dealing with the maniacs of the East End than sitting where she was. The brunette sat in the drivers seat of car. The car had been parked for roughly 15 minutes, but the woman had yet to move. She just sat there, emerald eyes gazing intensely at the front doors of the hospital. Selina hated hospitals. Normally, she avoided them at all costs. Growing up, she couldn't afford traditional health care, and her only memories of hospital waiting rooms as a child were unpleasent. The death of her grandmother, the death of her parents... she was never at a hospital for a good reason. Even now, she refused to go. Most of her injuries were as Catwoman, and you can't really explain a knife wound to a doctor without them questioning it, so it was easier to deal with injuries on her own. In her head, she would have rather been anywhere else in the world... well minus Gotham.

"Goddammit.." the woman muttered to herself, finally releasing the steering wheel from her death grip. She had to be there, so she might has gotten it over with quickly. Somethings were more important than her own feelings toward particular public buildings.

This was one trip she couldn't avoid. The police department had arrived at Randolf Industries that morning, surprisingly it was one of the few mornings she was actually there. Having the police show up at her work place made her a little uneasy to begin with. Selina was never particularly fond of cops, particularly the ones in Gotham. The majority of them were more crooked than she was. Her first concerns were that they discovered who she was, but she quickly realized no in that force had enough brain power to think that hard. It had to be something else.

They had found a girl's body in the ruble of an appartment building in the East End. The only id she had on her was a security card for Randolf industries. They needed someone to identify the body. There were thousands of employees at Randolf, it could have been anyone. But there was a select few girls in the East End she had given positions to. It was an attempt to get them off the street, if they lived in the East End she felt she'd recognize the face.

An uneasy feeling set in her stomach as her heels tapped against the tiled floors of the hospital. It was like a damn maze she didn't want to be in. The hospital was in much better shape than she expected. If Bruce hadn't poured money into the place, odds were it would have been a pile of ruble like the rest of the city. Hands slipped into the pockets of her leather jacket, as she began down the staircase to the morgue. The woman stopped eyeing the men bringing in what seemed like a new collection of bodies. The one man was incredibly familiar. Harvey Bullock, she knew him well. Spent a hell of a lot of time avoiding that man. The ironic thing was, he probably wouldn't recognize her face.

She fought every urge in her body to resist grinning. In the pit of her heart, she loved situations like this. Felt like she had a complete upper hand. He had tried to put her behind bars for years. And here was his chance, but he didn't even know he had. Situations like this, were strangely satisfying.

[Dr. Jonathan Crane]

“Death in itself is nothing; but we fear,
To be we know not what, we know not where.”

--- John Dryden

When animal tissue begins to break down after death, the decomposing body releases a number of chemicals. Chief among these are the toxic compounds cadaverine and putrescine, which are mainly responsible for the foul odor associated with the decay of formerly living tissue.

However, these chemicals are not without their uses in certain … specialized circles. They were, in fact, essential to The Scarecrow’s newest experimental toxin. So it was that, late at night, one of Gotham City’s most notorious criminals was sneaking around a putrid-smelling hospital basement filled with dead bodies.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was not a particularly squeamish man, but even he had to admit that this was not the most pleasant way to spend an evening. Even his trademark mask, the burlap covering up a built-in gas mask, did little to guard against the overwhelming stench.

The morgue was practically overflowing. This was Gotham, after all. Grisly murders and high death rates were mainstays of the city’s culture. Even so, the number of cadavers in the facility was … startling to say the least. The not-so-good doctor supposed it should not be particularly surprising. The death toll spiked when the earthquake hit, and when the city was declared a “No Man’s Land” by the government, the already unruly city went completely out of control. The authorities, of course, tried to maintain a sense of normality, keeping the city operating as well as they could. Still, it was fairly obvious that it was not enough.

Dr. Crane opened up one of the freezer drawers, revealing an elderly, white male. Of course, an entire body would prove impractical and an ungainly burden. Besides, he could hardly just walk back through the hospital carrying a cadaver over his shoulder. Even in this city, someone was bound to notice. He started to rip open the stitches sewn by the coroner, reopening the Y-shaped cut. His hands, now mercifully covered by latex gloves, dug in and he began to remove whatever he could, placing each organ in a separate glass jar. An impromptu dissection. Quite charmless.

The second drawer revealed a middle-aged, black woman. He repeated the process. Dr. Crane retained his clinical detachment, but he couldn’t deny the process was disgusting and degrading. He was a doctor of the mind, not the body. He held a certain level of disdain for doctors of the physical ailments. The mind is infinitely more complex.

Two or three more times he opened up the drawers and went to work. Not just organs, but hands, ears, anything available. It was all, perhaps, a little macabre.

He breathed in sharply. By now, he could hear footsteps just outside the door. The mortician’s assistants were probably bringing in new cadavers at about this time. If he were found here … suffice it to say it would not be advisable for him to remain much longer. How inconvenient. Still, the best laid plans and all that. He twisted shut the lid of the jar he was holding, sealing away his samples. He stowed it away with the others in a large, black duffel bag before slinging it over his shoulder and turning towards the double doors.

[Harvey Bullock]

The gurney pushers, what Harvey expected to be the newbie nurses of Gotham General, had now replaced the ambulance workers, who had other places to go – obviously in Gotham’s current state – ambulance drivers must’ve been working over time. In any case, they placed the body bags on top of the wheelers and began pushing them into an elevator, and turning in their special key to bring them down to a restricted area only meant for personnel, the basement morgue. Walking stridently behind them were Dr. Hanz, the mortician and Harvey Bullock, an underrated and usually underestimated Detective of the Gotham City Police Department.

Sure he perhaps never heard of Schubert’s String Quartet No.14 in D-minor, listened to Carmen’s Habanera, or ever fully appreciated The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. But this didn’t limit his capability in learning in different methods, he wasn’t one to crack open a book, he was an observer and used experience over actual classical methods of learning, and relied heavily on his intuition which almost never steered him wrong. Without knowing what Dr. Hanz was talking about when he stated that one of the victims had his Mandible, Zygoma, and Juga Cerebralia completely crushed, just by taking a look at the weird shaped lumps of flesh within the body bags and the complete sound of shock within the doctor’s voice, he knew that these bodies must’ve been pretty fucked up. Tuning out the doctor’s ramblings he turned his attention to the GCPD’s walkie-talkie system, and stationed in one of the officers to bring in someone to identify the bodies. As far as he was concerned one of them worked at Randolf Industries, as their ID card in their wallet showed, but strangely enough that’s all they about had on their person. Most likely it was lost within the rubble, but something just seemed very odd, how could this one particular person in the group have their wallet on them and only have their ID in it? Strange – but something to keep in mind for later when the autopsy was clear and he was given the thumbs up by the good-doctor to leave.

As they all stepped into the elevator, all uncomfortably cramped and way too close to the clumps of dead bodies on the gurney’s, they all looked solemnly ahead of themselves as their ears filled with the static-y sound of elevator music. The ride down seemed to take a lot longer than Harvey had anticipated and began to pull out a cigarette from his breast pocket, he put it to his lips and began pulling out his lighter when Dr. Hanz irately scolded Harvey to put the cigarettes and lighter away. In his heavily accented German voice he said, “Are you mad, Mr. Bullock?” He said as if he had just desecrated a church or some other holy relic, “This is a HOSPITAL, there is absolutely NO SMOKING TO BE ALLOWED! And with these bodies, the smoke and fumes could contaminate them! Please, put that away!” Bullock looked at him, blinked, grumbled under his breath and put his lighter away, and then pulled the cigarette from his lips and placed it behind his ear for safe keeping until the stuck-up bastard wasn’t around to yell at him anymore. Besides what would his smoke be contaminating anyways? They’re in bags for cryin’ out loud! And smoking, please, they act like a few puffs would give them cancer, he had been smoking for years now and he hadn’t had a single warning sign of anything malignant.

The elevator door ringed as it reached the final floor and their designated stop in the basement. The nurses pushed out the bodies first, the doctor, giving one final glare towards Harvey then proceeded after them, and slowly but surely, Bullock followed right behind. He was definitely not in the mood to go inside of a morgue, then again he never was, he’s been in there way to many times to count but whenever he had to go in he always got really antsy and impatient and just all around moody. Luckily for him, when his walkie-talkie buzzed in, he was able to postpone his entrance for just a tad bit longer. Before he picked it up, he turned to Dr. Hanz and the Gurney pushers and began shooing them away. “Ya guys go ahead without me. I’ll be catchin’ up – some important business I gotta get to first.” Dr. Hanz was all to willing to leave Bullock behind in the hallway and disappear behind the double doors and proceed with his work without having to be mangled together with someone as ungraceful and inconsiderate as Bullock.

Once Bullock was sure that everyone was within the confines behind the double doors, he pulled the cigarette out from behind his ear and lit it up and began heartily smoking and breathing in the nicotine and tobacco into his lungs. He picked up his buzzing walkie-talkie and immediately barked into it, “Whatta ya want?” The Gotham General local police officer had buzzed him in and immediately replied that they had sent the identifier down to the basement and would be arriving there shortly to meet him, Harvey curtly responded with a “Thanks” and then cut off the connection.

He decided that he was going to wait out in the hallway before getting inside the morgue to meet the identifier (and of course to finish his cigarette – but also this worked out a good excuse to keep him out of there longer). He thought it would be a courteous thing to do to ease the ugly tension of having to step into one of these death holes and warn them about the less-than-pleasant conditions the bodies were in. He began to pace around the hallway looking at his watch, patience was definitely not one of his virtues, even if the only thing waiting for him afterwards was to look at some really crushed up pieces of flesh – the faster they did it, the faster he could get out of here and enjoy that donut he was thinking about earlier.

[Selina Kyle]

This situation was far too pleasant considering the circumstances. At least she could make the best of a bad situation. She hated cops, well hate is a strong word. She strongly disliked most cops. Particularly those in Gotham. Most of them were complete pigs, who used the law to their own advantage. And they got away with it. They threw others behind bars for similar actions to their own. The GCPD needed to learn how to practice what they preached. Well most of them at least.

Not all cops were that bad. Even she'd admit to that. Some actually genuinely cared, but those were few and far in between. Gordan was one of those. Actually, he was one of the few she respected. Unlike alot of them, that man actually cared about the hell hole that was Gotham City.

Harvey Bullock was one she didn't exactly know how to pin. She doubted he was a completely 'clean cop', he always seemed to give her trouble (not like that was unlike the rest of the Gotham PD), but from what she heard on the street he had a little something against Batman and rest of the costumed heros. Bare in mind, that was word on the street. It wasn't exactly a reliable source, particulary when you consider the kinds of people on the streets of Gotham. It just seemed a bit interesting to her that someone who cared of the well being of the city would try and stop its protectors. Regardless of his intentions, motives, or beliefs really were there was definetly something about him she didn't like, something she didn't trust. He didn't look like much of a cop, not one that would be any good. Physically, the man was more likely to have a heart attack than chase after a criminal. On his own, this was the best chance he ever had at putting Catwoman behind bars. And he wasn't even aware of his opportunity. It was a tad pitiful actually.

She gently pushed a dark strand of hair out of her face as she walked down the hallway, the smell of death consuming the air. And so began her facade. She'd never let him have the chance to make a connection, she was too good at faking who she was for him ever to figure that out . She knew her purpose there, and she'd follow through with it.

"Detective Bullock correct?" she said softly, a faint tone of discomfort in her voice. Her displeasure for having to spend so much time in the damn hospital made it a bit easier to hide her interest in the situation. Maybe he'd think the notion of death discomforted her. Little did he know, death had become a part of her every day life. "Selina Kyle. I'm supposed to be identifying a girl." she added a bit of uneasyness in her voice. Her eyes wandered to the double doors of the morgue. Realistically, she just wanted to get in there, and get out. The hospital was making her uncomfortable, but that wasn't the truth he'd know. " I haven't had to do this before.. I won't be in there long will I?" She knew the process, well assumed she did. Go in. Say it's who you think it is, leave. Maybe there was some paperwork along the lines. She let him think the morgue made her uncomfortable, really she just wanted to know how much longer she'd be stuck in that building.

[Dr. Jonathan Crane]

“There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

--- T. S. Elliot

The double doors swung wide open as the two muscle-bound nurses brought in the gurney. They were deeply engaged in conversation (something about the Gotham Knights recent football game), which meant they didn’t see the not-so-good doctor until it was too late. As soon as the first nurse turned away, preparing to log the new arrival, he was upon them.

The Scarecrow lifted his arm in a sudden and abrupt motion. The device in his sleeve sprayed his trademark toxin in the face of the closer nurse. He fell to the ground, breathing heavily. As Scarecrow stepped over him, the man glanced up at his attacker’s face. He paled and let out a high-pitched whimper, like a wounded dog.

“Yo, man. Izzat you?” The first man was turning to investigate why his friend was making such a strange noise. Had he been so much as a fraction of a second faster, he might have had a chance. But he wasn’t. He too got a heavy dose of fear toxin. He backpedaled. When he hit the wall, all he could do was let himself slide down into a sitting position.


***


“Walls. C-c-closin’ in. The walls. Can’t m-move. Can’t move.”

Alec was on the ground, curled up in the fetal position. Everything seemed strange and out of focus. The feeling was not unlike a drug-induced high, but without the “feel good” side-effects. Instead, all he could feel was a cold shiver running down his spine, a kind of icy dread.

Then a voice, faint and far-off. It almost sounded as if it were coming through a badly-tuned microphone. It was garbled and echoing. Still, he could make out what it was saying.

[glow=white,1,500]“Ah, claustrophobia. An insidious thing, oft suffered in private and so rarely understood.

“One man’s tight space is another’s ballroom. One man’s auditorium is just another walled structure slowly closing in on all sides.

“Close your eyes. Go on. Block it out. That’s what most will try, only to discover the awful truth. That the smallest space we often occupy is inside our own heads. We collapse further and further in upon ourselves, condensed to a black hole from which no light might escape.

“Feel that squeezing around your ribs? What do you think will go first? Your ability to expand your lungs? Or maybe the air with which you hope to fill them?

“Hehehehahahahahaha!!!”[/glow]

As the voice spoke, Alec could see everything closing in around him. The walls moving in from all sides. The ceiling coming down as though to crush him. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to move.

Then he blinked. His eyes were only closed for a moment, but when he opened them, all he could see was a terrible face. It was made of burlap, like a scarecrow’s. Yet, somehow, it seemed more real than anything he had ever seen before.

The scarecrow’s mouth opened wide, the stitches snapping apart. Then they came alive, stretching out and wrapping around his arms, legs, chest, neck. And they dragged him in. The face was still laughing as its mouth closed around him, swallowing him whole.


***


The Scarecrow chuckled to himself as he observed the man on the floor. Intellectually, he knew he should be leaving now. He needed to get out of there before more people showed up. Nevertheless, he stayed where he was. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the men cowering there like little children.

Their fear was an elixir. It made him feel truly alive.

He focused his attention on the other one, the man cowering against the wall.


***


“So wet. So cold. C-can’t breathe!”

As Lee opened his eyes, the brightness of the day forced him to shut them just as fast. It took him a while to adjust. Just as he thought he could bear to look around him again, he felt himself falling.

Falling.

Falling.

And SPLASH!

As the water soaked every inch of skin and clothing, he felt a stir in the pit of his stomach. Struggling to stay afloat, gasping for air, he could just see a small boat heading towards him. If he could only reach it …

[glow=white,1,500]“They call it aquaphobia, this fear of water. So strange a thing, to fear that which we depend on to give life. Does one fear oneself as well? The human body is largely composed of water, after all.

“But perhaps it is not the water you fear, per se. rather, you fear drowning. Try as you might, you can’t surface. The cool liquid filling your lungs. Your body sinking. Down, down, down. A watery grave.” [/glow]

As Lee grasped the side of the little boat, its owner took him by the hand. Then the figure came into vision. It was a man, sure, but his face was concealed behind a disturbing fright-mask. It looked like a scarecrow.

Instead of pulling him in the boat with him, the man leapt from the boat. He was dragging him down, into the water. Try as he might, he couldn’t resist.

As he looked again into the scarecrow mask’s eyes, it was as if he could see past them into the deepest depths of the ocean. Like a whirlpool, they sucked him in. Taking him farther and farther from the surface, down to the ocean floor.

He couldn’t fight it anymore, the pain in his lungs. He opened his mouth, letting the last of the air out.

And he inhaled. A single breath was all it took. He was finished, acutely aware of the water as it flooded his insides. It filled him up while everything faded to blackness.


***


It was at this point that the medical examiner, Dr. Hanz, walked in. He was a short man, and balding noticeably. His heavy black mustache and beard were going gray and might have made him look comical if it weren’t for the eyes. The eyes. They were a steely grey, cold, humorless, and as dead as the people he worked with every day.

Despite the German name, he reminded Dr. Crane forcibly of the Russian revolutionary Lenin.

In the end, it didn’t really matter. In a flash, Crane was upon him, forcing his face roughly into the path of his special toxin.

“So, tell me, doctor. What do you fear?”


***


Everything was dark. Dr. Hanz was awake, but he couldn’t seem to see anything. He tried to move, but his arms, his legs … they felt like lead. He couldn’t move a muscle. Just as he started to panic, he heard a strange noise, like the zipper on a coat, and suddenly there was a blinding light.

His vision was a little blurry, but as it cleared he thought he recognized the room he was in. Yes, it looked like the basement of the hospital. He was looking up at the ceiling in the morgue. But what was he doing there, in this position?

He could feel people moving around him, but he couldn’t turn his head. Suddenly, there was a chill. Everything felt cold and a little … exposed. He was, apparently, lying on a metal table. In the morgue.

His eyes widened in understanding, then in horror.

A man bent into view, wearing hospital scrubs, glasses, and a surgical mask. He couldn’t really make out anything about the man’s face. It was too well concealed. He could, however, see his mouth moving behind the mask.

[glow=white,1,500]“A fear of death, Necrophobia or Thanatophobia. The latter, of course, comes from the Greek Thanatos, the name for the mythological personification of death. Not unlike our own Grim Reaper, as a matter of fact.

“A fear of death is only natural, although it is, perhaps, a little ironic in your case, yes? You work with death everyday. Death is your livelihood, yet you would do anything to postpone your own inevitable fate.”[/glow]

The figure bent out of view for a second, but returned promptly, holding a scalpel. It leaned closer.

[glow=white,1,500]“Few people seem to discuss this fear, yet it affects us all at one time or another.”[/glow]

While the figure spoke, Hanz could feel the knife cut through his skin. It hurt more than anything he had felt before, but he couldn’t cry out. He couldn’t make it stop. He couldn’t even weep to relieve the tension.

[glow=white,1,500]“Most people with this condition are consumed by their fear of imminent mortality. Their fear of death keeps them from ever living fully, their minds forever preoccupied by the future.

“Some, however, have a different philosophy. They prefer, instead, to deny death’s very existence. The prospect of an endless supply of tomorrows gives them leave to live on the edge, flirting with the thing they most want to avoid.”[/glow]

The hospital garb fell away, revealing a frightful mask. But before Hanz could get a good look at it, it seemed to burn away from the inside. All that was left was a skeleton, grinning horribly.

It was then that he realized he was no longer in the morgue. He was standing in front of a mirror, which meant that the face he was looking into … that terrible, grinning skull … was his own.


***


Hanz’s scream pierced the silence.

[Harvey Bullock]

A final couple of hearty puffs before his cigarette finally hit the filter and he had to flick it out across the hallway.

He stood still, placing his hands within the confines of his brown pants pockets and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Surely the person couldn’t have gotten lost – and as soon as a loud CREAK and a soft clicking of heels hitting the linoleum floor began to fill the hall way, Harvey knew the person he had been waiting for had finally arrived.

She was quite the looker. And with a single once over, Harvey drank her all in from head to toe. She was a little on the tall side and had a cute little curvy figure, she seemed to weigh as much as his left arm, and it looked like he could’ve easily have picked her up effortlessly and thrown her across the room if he had wanted to. However, beneath that slim and petite exterior, beneath the ruffling shirt she wore he could see the defined muscularity in her arms, perhaps she did a lot of those pilates or kick-boxing crapolas all of the other girls were getting into these days.

But there was something off about her. Something he didn’t like. She reminded him of someone HE particularly didn’t like.

Now Harvey Bullock was probably the least reliable man on the face of the earth to ever figure out what a girl was all about. He hadn’t had anything remotely resembling a date in – god knows how long, and the only women he had been around were lady cops and strippers. Usually when the male enforcement officers were feeling in a good mood, or just wanted to blow off some steam they would usually invite the whole precinct to “X-otica”, a pretty well known strip-joint not to far from the GCPD building. He’d have himself a good amount of alcohol in his system, throw around a few dollars, and eventually leave home late in the evening and sit at home and listen to his records. Alone.

At times, on those rare occasions, he’d try to get a little fresh with the opposite sex. But Renee would always glare at him and say he was either being a “machismo pig” or “a lonely bastard”. And those other times he was actually trying to be some form of polite, his actions would completely fly over them and he’d end up in square one again. In the end he usually found relationships to be tedious, and women to either lack a sense of manly and brutish humor that he was most known for, and confusing. Though sometimes his heart would pang with a sense of loneliness, in the end he was content for having Renee Montoya and James Gordon as his friends – and that’s all he ever really needed. He heard so many stories of relationships ending because cops couldn’t stay home and take care of their spouses, their significant other would get gunned down from a lunatic who had been nabbed by their lover, and whole bunch of other whack-a-doo stories like that. He didn’t want to have to jeopardize anyone close to him, and living alone, guaranteed he never would have to.

But besides the fact that he honestly believed that women were running under a completely different program than men, there were still many things he could pick up from them just by paying attention to their body language. Taking careful note of her fidgetiness, though he basically chalked that up to the idea of being in the morgue, hospitals and death freaked him out just as much as it did anybody else. It was a very human thing to fear, but it all depended on how well you controlled and composed yourself under that fear that showed your true colors. Perhaps she had some bad memories about places like this, but it wasn’t his place to question her about her past, she was needed for other purposes.

“Detective Bullock at ya service.” He replied after she had inquired after him. The sound of disgust in her voice was apparent and a sense of urgency flooded out through her body language. Now Bullock was probably not the most pleasant sight for sore eyes, and nasty little rumors have been spreading around that he’s a dirty cop. This actually couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Well, not a “dirty cop” in the sense that he couldn’t give two shits about the city; because he really did love and wanted to help Gotham. But, strangely enough, much like Batman had to take certain matters into his own hands and do some of the dirtier things that regular cops couldn’t do; Harvey did it in a much similar fashion but with less latex. He’d get information from less than pleasant sources; he’d beat the crap out of people for information, and bullied people into getting the things he wanted. Sure it wasn’t as squeaky clean as Gordon would’ve liked, but it worked, and it gave him results quick and easy. In any case, she was put carefully under his surveillance, not only did she vaguely remind him of someone he didn’t particularly like (though at the moment he couldn’t put his finger on it), but deep down in his gut she just didn’t agree with him. And he always took advice from his intuition.

“Nah, should only take ‘bout a few minutes, Miss Kyle.” He began slowly making his way down towards the double doors of the morgue. Looking over his shoulder to make sure she was following right behind him. There were a few questions rumbling around in his brain, but he didn’t know if it was the appropriate time to ask them. But then he stopped, perhaps it would at least give her some food for thought when she went to go identify the bodies. “We found the bodies down at Gotham Heights, looked like ya regular accident, but when I was lookin’ through da bodies, something odd came up.” He paused, “I mean, it maybe don’t mean nothin’, none of them had any sort of identification except this one broad, but when checkin’ out her wallet, that’s all she had in there, her ID.” He took another step towards the double doors, “And who just carries around an ID in their wallet? Not that I’m sayin’ this could be a homicide, but when ya figure it out who this lady is, tell me if she had any enemies – perhaps a –“

His train of thought was immediately disrupted by a loud and ominous three part screaming symphony from behind the morgue doors. “What the –“, without so much as a second thought, Bullock pulled open his trench coat and pulled out from his holster his Glock 22, a trusted piece of weaponry that always got him out of sticky situations. He then proceeded to pull out his officer issued walkie-talkie, “This is Bullock down at Gotham General, copy?” He waited a moment before the other end crackled to life, “We gettin’ a disturbance down here at the morgue send some back-up here, fast!” He shoved it carelessly back into his pocket and then looked towards Kyle, a determined and strict solemn look constrained within his eyes, “Stay down and out of the goddamn way – ya hear?” Without another word he held his hand gun out in front of him, and used his foot to kick opens the morgue door.

A gust of cold air hit his face but he didn’t blink as he stared at the black abyss of the morgue.

At first everything seemed dark and quiet – as if nothing had happened – but it was eerie and there was a particular smell wavering in the air. He stepped a little ways inside, his back still towards the exit of the morgue as he shifted his gun around the room, his eyes checking out every nook and cranny that it could possibly see. “This is the goddamn GCPD! Step out of the room now!”

Utter silence.

He stood still, sweat forming on his brow. But he wasn’t scared. Far from it at the moment, he was determined, and probably more than determined, he was angry. Here he was, hoping for an easy day. He already had enough on his plate from the goddamn earthquake situation and now this business – he couldn’t even enjoy his donut now.

“I repeat – get out of the room NOW!” His forefinger was gently squeezing the trigger. Ready to shoot anything that so much as even looked at him the wrong way.

[Selina Kyle]

"A few minutes?" she said softly, more so to her self. She took a rough estimate at what ' a few ' really meant. Selina mentally clocked out her night in her head, hoped to be out of that place in 15 minutes, 20 tops. It seemed like a good guess. "Alright."

Hands slipped into the pockets of her jacket as she followed behind him, half listening to his words. It was the same crap the cop had told her earlier.

With his assumptions, it didn't seem like he was that horrible at his job. He'd been looking for clues. He had a point, something seemed a bit strange about the situation. But she began to wonder how benefical it would be to investigate a 'strange' situation when you found the body in a pile of rubble. Sure, there was a shace something was up. Since none of them had any identification, there was always the possibility they were robbed, but why leave one piece of ID? That was the one thing that made her question how likely a robery was. They'd grab the wallets from the body and take off, why would they take the chance of being caught. That was only her logic though, she wasn't the one looking for clues. When she stole, she was quick, she didn't waste time searching through things. If the crime was murder, she'd be even faster about it. If she wanted something from the wallet, she'd take the whole thing. Make it look like it was a robbery, the last thing she'd do was waste time being selective. But she was no murderer, this wasn't her crime, actually there didn't seem like there was much of a crime. Unless there was a pissed off pimp somewhere along the chain of events.

In her head, it seemed like a sheer coincidence. There was a few girls she hired off the street. They were working girls, and Selina knew better how the underworld of the East End worked. For over a decade she watched what it could do to people, she managed to avoid it, but saw other girls pulled into it. Part of her had a duty to help where she could. Getting them off the streets was easier said than done, they never worked for themselves, there was always someone they worked under. Breaking the relationship between a 'man' and his girl was tricky. If her suspicions were right, the girl was still working the streets, maybe out on a job. ID wasn't something you brought along with you, well, you were limited in her choices of ID. You didn't want your customers to know who you really were, but in the event you ended up dead, you wanted someone to know who you were. It was not really an ideal lifestyle.

Her thoughts were cut short as the scream echoed through the dimmly lit corridor. It wasn't a scream of shock or surprise, it was a blood curling scream of horror. Something terrifying was in that room, something much more terrifying than death.

Emerald eyes snapped open, her body denying its natural instincts. Every urge of her body told her to move forward, see what the hell was in there. But she couldn't. She wasn't Catwoman, she was Selina Kyle. She could take off get the costume, and come back maybe, but that would look far too suspicious. It looked like she'd have to trust the instincts of the GCPD for the time being, at least until she planned a better strategy.

She was certain she could hold her own against whatever was in there, but the problem was Harvey Bullock was standing feet ahead of her calling for help. In a matter of minutes, there'd be more cops than she needed in that corridor. Seemed like for the first for a long time she'd be playing the role of the innocent, distressted civilian. It was a pathetic role, and far from her favorite.

Stay out of the goddam way? He was a damn fool, she could fair far better in this situation than he could. She nodded reluctantly, taking a step back, emerald eyes watching the double door eagerly.

[Dr. Jonathan Crane]

“No rest for the wicked.”

--- Old Proverb

“This is the goddamn GCPD! Step out of the room now!”

Hiding behind one of the room’s supporting columns, Dr. Jonathan Crane breathed in sharply. The police. Here. Quietly, Crane reprimanded himself. “Good show, Jonathan. Perhaps you ought to have gone out and flashed the damned Batsignal while you’re at it.” He sighed. “Well, the best laid plans and all that. I suppose I should be thankful that it is only the GCPD and not the Batman’s veritable army of do-gooders and vigilantes.”

“I repeat – get out of the room NOW!”

The not-so-good doctor spoke again, audibly this time. Luckily, his voice reverberated around the room, making it quite impossible to precisely determine his location based solely on the sound of his voice. “Such bad manners, Detective. With such an attitude, perhaps you missed your calling as a clerk for the Department of Motor Vehicles. I would venture to say that it is still not too late to rectify your grievous error in your choice of occupation. Nevertheless, if you do insist on meddling in my affairs much further, I cannot be held accountable for my actions.” Crane chuckled to himself. “Come to think of it, this is technically true. My claim has been upheld time and time again, both in the courts and by my own colleagues in the field of psychiatric medicine.”

“But I digress. I am a delusional sociopath, suffering from affective flattening with dissociative episodes connected with forced exposure to my own chemicals by the self-righteous Dark Knight. I am not, however, stupid. I realize perfectly well that I am thoroughly outmatched were our little confrontation to come down to physical violence.

“Nonetheless, it would be remiss for me not to point out that you have, accompanying you, a vulnerable young woman. I wonder, how would it affect you if she were to come to harm due to your own inherent aggressiveness, responsible for her as you are now? Would that not weigh heavily upon your conscience? Despite your gruff demeanor, I have a feeling that it would. And I say this as both a professional criminal and a certified psychoanalyst. It is my opinion, therefore, that we should each go our separate ways, for the good of all involved.”

It would be foolhardy to hope the brutish police officer in the hall might actually listen to reason, or rather Crane’s version of reason, but the not-so-good doctor had not exactly been standing idly by while he attempted to negotiate with Detective Bullock. He had taken the time to once again donned his trademark fright-mask and rearm the toxin-dispenser concealed in his sleeve. He was prepared to make a run for it, with or without the ingredients he had collected, or at least to make a fight out of it.

He wasn’t scared. There was only one thing that truly scared him (well, two things if you count those damnable birds), and the Batman had not been heard from since the earthquake. With any luck, the bat had been killed in the cataclysm, or else abandoned the city he had tried so hard to save. Intellectually, Crane knew that neither possibility was particularly likely. No, he was out there somewhere, biding his time. Still, when the cat’s away …

[Harvey Bullock]

Backup was going to take A LOT longer than he had wanted.

It took him about twenty minutes to reach the hospital earlier and that was a whole TWENTY minutes for an AMBULANCE. Those things should be running faster than hell fire and it took him about as much time as it would for him to take a shower. Knowing the police station would probably be equidistant or even farther – they would have to wait about another half an hour or so till the backup he called in actually came into practice. For the moment, it was just him, Selena, and the whack job who was taking hostage a morgue full of dead people.

As soon as the first sounds of audible life came bouncing off the dark walls and into Harvey’s ear, he paused. His frustration and anger doubled, it was punk kids getting a few scares and laughs at other people’s expense, it wasn’t greedy bastards trying to mooch off the bits and pieces of the dearly departed, it wasn’t even a strange necrophiliac trying to get his jollies off, it was one of THEM. The masks. That do nothing but take and take and take and contribute nothing of their own to society – making everyone’s life harder – making life just a tad bit less enjoyable to live. Just a tad.

He didn’t lower his gun, but the machinations of his mind were already whirling into motion. Dr. Jonathan Crane, being the egoist that he is, like most criminals of his low caliber were, he could talk days and days and days about absolutely nothing. Most of these fruits usually enjoyed the sounds of their own voices. And this he took to his immediate advantage. He didn’t need to fully listen or understand what Crane was talking about, like most nut jobs, it was probably along the lines of world domination and kiddie porn.

In his mind he began leafing through the many profiles of Arkham Asylum and of all the bad guys and losers he had caught during the years. When he finally reached Cran’s profile he contentedly remembered the doctor’s slim physique and lack of any sort of masculinity. If face to face in a fist fight, Harvey would undoubtedly win without much of an effort, he could probably throw him across the hallway farther than he could throw Selena. However, being the tall legged freak he was, he definitely had a knack for running, something Bullock obviously lacked in his physical department. But, what he lacked in speed, he made up for in artillery. As far as his memory record was concerned, “Scarecrow” (he hated using their aliases), wasn’t a gun toting freak like Harvey Dent, and if he decided to run for it, he was pretty sure that his bullet would be able to run a lot faster than he did.

Everything seemed to be balancing out in his favor except that one glaringly big and important different. Crane had toxins. He probably never left home without a canister of that smelly crap. His hallucinogens – his “Scare Toxins”. Even taking a whiff of that stuff could get anyone twitchy and out of whack. One squirt of that in his direction and the whole operation was over. Immediately, Harvey plunged his thick hand into his pocket and began digging around in it, pulling out pieces of paper, wrappers and pennies. Finally he pulled out a tissue paper with a dented straw that had scrounged and buried itself within the deep confines of his pocket. If one thing being at Police Academy and Gotham taught him, it was to be resourceful at all times. Most people would call that being a pack rat and a messy bum, but he knew that perhaps one day, all this useless crap would probably not be so useless after all. He immediately set himself to work, ripping up two small pieces of straw, stuffing each of the small pieces with tissue paper and bending it right in the midsection to make for a easily made and silly looking nose plug. He shoved one of the pairs into his nose. Sure it was probably not as reliant as the GCPD gas masks or as savvy and technically sound as Batman’s little get-up, but it would do for now, and as long as he didn’t get fully blasted he would probably be fine – for the most part.

He took his eyes off the morgue entrance for a minute and began whispering out towards Selena. “Kyle! C’mere!” He held out the other makeshift pair of nose plugs to her, “Put it in your nose! And get out of here!” He shoved her out as far away from the double doors as he possibly could as he diverted all his attention back at the imposing blackness of Crane’s hideout.

:After hearing Crane’s statement about Selena’s well-being he puffed up in defiance. “Ya kidding me? This broad?” He laughed out loud, nonchalantly. “This stupid bitch is useless. She ain’t got nothin’ on this.” He said as aggressively and as realistically as he possibly could – which for the most part sounded pretty convincing on his part – it sounded like something he would actually say even outside of the context of trying to protect an innocent bystander. But he knew Crane would catch on, he knew he did care, to some extent, and that bothered him, he hated hostage/by-stander situations.

“And you got another thing comin’ if you think you’re gonna be comin’ out of their without certified cuffs around those wrists.” He shot a warning shot into the darkness of the ceiling – or at least what he perceived to be the ceiling and heard the crumbling sound of the plaster fall to the floor as his bullet crashed into it. “And you got even more things comin’ if you think I’m anything like that Bat. I ain’t gonna slap you on the wrist and call it a day if ya try to pull a fast one on me. I will blow you away and say it was an accident.”

[Dr. Jonathan Crane]

“No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.”

--- Edmund Burke

“Ya kidding me? This broad? This stupid bitch is useless. She ain’t got nothin’ on this.” The fat, bullying cop outside was trying to manipulate Crane, trying to take control of the situation. This, of course, was inexcusable, but it was worse considering the type of person this was coming from.

Of course, Dr. Crane wasn’t exactly fond of the police. Sure Gotham’s law enforcement were themselves not exactly known for their sterling reputation (alternating between stupid incompetence and corruption), but if anything that should be appealing to the city’s criminal underworld.

No, Dr. Crane didn’t have a problem with cops (except, of course, when they were arresting him), but he did have a problem with bullies. People like the police detective out in the hall. Loud-mouthed, muscle-bound morons who pushed around people like him, people who used their brawn instead of their brain, who made it through life by forcing their betters to bow before them. It was infuriating.

“I can tell when people are lying to me, and you are lying to me, Detective. I can hear the insincerity in your voice. You really should not lie to your doctor, my friend. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.

“Detective, the fact of the matter is that just these last two minutes have told me everything there is to know about you. I dare say that I know you as well, if not even better, than you know yourself.

“You have a, shall we say ‘colorful’, view of the world around you. It clouds your perceptions, changes how you see everything and everyone you meet. Things are very much black-and-white to you. There is wrong and there is right. You believe this very firmly, although I might venture to guess that your views do not always mesh with those of your friends, or rather your colleagues, in the police department. Something about you tells me you are willing to cross lines that others would not in your relentless pursuit of ‘justice’. Nevertheless, you feel as if there are good people and there are bad people. No matter what, you believe in that.

“You are wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides. A great rolling sea of evil. Shallower in some places, yes, but deeper, oh, so much deeper in others. But people like you put together little rafts of rules and vaguely good intentions and say, ‘This is the opposite, this will triumph in the end.’ You wait for an end that will never come, in an impossible war with the very nature of humankind. It’s admirable, in a way, but ultimately futile. You must see this. So why bother? Why fight it? Just give in, Detective. Give in.

"And you are very much mistaken if you think that I will let myself be captured by some pompous, delusional beat cop. You see, you are right about one thing, and one thing only. You are not like the Batman. The fear of one's adversary is the only deciding factor in any matter of import. You are not the Batman and thus you do not frighten me. Nothing you can possibly do will make me afraid of you. And that means I hold all the cards. Because, you see, I can still frighten you. If you let your guard down, for even a moment, I will break you. I will destroy you. I will leave you lying there, begging for the sweet release of death, for even death would be preferable to the torments of your own mind that I will release upon you. We are our own worst enemies, Detective. Ultimately, the fear that rules us, that governs our every action and inaction ... it comes from us. And there's no escaping it.”