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An amalgam of blurred colors, tans, greys and greens whirled past his vision. High intensity lights from above injected pure anxiety and fear into his system. No wait, maybe that was the toxin. Were those bright lights actually flood lights from helicopters and cameras hellbent on discovering his true identity? Or were they just overhead lights in an asylum, intent on knowing the mind of the man that worked behind the mask? That laughter, so loud in his head could have just as easily been interpreted as a helicopters blades slicing through air. His perception was so hazy. Which was the true reality? What was the cause of his panic and irrational fear? Neither Batman nor Bruce could be certain.
All he knew was that he had to escape.
Movement and motion controlled by a mind going haywire was certainly sloppy and throwing in tasks that took some element of consideration was a recipe for disaster. Complicated tools and items were misused, damaged and misplaced in his utility belt in his frenzy to escape. Though he had more experience with his personal arsenal than anyone, he still fumbled with identifying them and their purpose. Half-conscious yet somehow aware of the barriers that kept him from freedom, Batman was able to continue on his escape, even if just barely.
The rush of adrenaline running through his veins was nothing he could control. Having a little prior knowledge to the chemical beforehand, he could imagine his vascular system’s reaction. He could almost feel his veins bulge and constrict with intense detail with each surge of the poison in his body. Even after what seemed to be an eternity of enduring the effects of the toxin, the symptoms were still there, the faint trails of fear and agony, crawling up his neck. It made his head ache, like nothing before. He could feel his hair, drenched in sweat, clinging to his skull underneath his armored cowl. Dr. Crane took the liberty of pointing out these little details to Bruce. His short cackles, echoed in the vast space of Batman’s corrupted psyche.
“Who’s that pathetic little man under the mask?” A garbled voice carried out across the hellish nightmare.
Bullets of sweat ran down Bruce’s skin, chilling him thoroughly. He’d never felt so nauseous. Was Scarecrow with him in the tunnel now? Or was this the memory of what he had said, and Batman was just now remembering it?
What seemed like just a moment ago, he had been looking at the doctor, Dr. Crane, a once prestigious professor of psychology, now a patient at Arkham asylum. Though the doctor’s back was turned to him, Batman could see he was in a patient’s gown and calmly seated at the interrogation table. He seemed to be fine without a straightjacket. Maybe his treatments at the asylum had been working. Then, like a switch had been turned, the Scarecrow was out and that disgusting stitched up mask was put on.
It was hard to recall what had happened, with the fear toxins taking their toll. The torturous looking gauntlet on Scarecrow’s right arm, flashed out of nowhere and had speared through Batman’s shoulder. Hallucinations and altered perception twisted the memory in Batman’s head, turning the needle injection into a full on impalement of monsterly claws through his entire abdomen. The orange glowing vials of toxin had burned into his vision as the rest of the world went dark and he fell back into the blackness.
Then, he was up in a flash and running. Where to? He couldn’t fully comprehend, unable to plan ahead in his delirium. He couldn’t even see through all the fog in the swamp, it’s toxic odor, making him cough and gag. Just as he had begun to question where he was the scene of the swamp flickered before him and he was back in the blinding halls of the Asylum, only the fog still remained.
Was it even real? With the amount that it clogged up his breathing, he could only assume that it was.
Holding his breath could only do so much. He slowly exhaled as he ran down the hall and away from the fumes. The realization hit him hard when he entered the next room.
That was fear gas. Not only had Crane got him with the injection, he had set up traps in the halls, and Batman had run into them.
In his flurry of an escape, without any warnings, he found himself face to face with his archnemesis, Bane. With a few incoherent words thrown at him, Batman was suddenly caught up in the full heat of his enemies punches. From his perspective the fight seemed incomprehensible, but luck would have it that his muscle memory served him well, even though his mind seemed five steps behind.
He began to hallucinate, the hellish nightmare of the gas overpowered his rational thinking so fast it left him dizzy. Though he managed to leave a lasting blow to Bane, he himself was forced back into the throngs of screams, ungodly faces, and deadly foes of his past. All the failures, resulting in countless deaths, wreaked havoc on his stability and confidence. Having a panic attack while being forced to perform at physical peak was taking its toll on him.
Mustering up the little courage he had left, he lept onto Bane’s back to detach the Titan chemical giving him his super strength.
Seeing the glowing chemical running through the tubes in Bane, however, gave him an extraordinarily vivid flash memory of the monstrous claws of Scarecrow’s gauntlet. Wanting anything but more of the fear toxin, Batman jumped away and scrambled back into a corner as his enemy tried to recuperate. He took the risk of letting Bane fall out of his sight as he searched for an exit, any exit.
Bane, stomping around behind him gave him all the more reason to fear, since he could at any time turn around and catch him in his unhinged mental state. Catching him, possibly going as far to removing his mask and discovering a man so terrified his eyes glinted with his crazed psyche.
Finding an air vent, he ripped it apart messily, not unlike a ravenous wolf at its prey. He squeezed in between the bits of twisted metal grating, tearing bits of his cloak and skin in the process.
The air vent shuddered as massive fists pounded on the walls behind him. The noise from the vibrations going as far as being the transition into his next hallucination.
The pounding of the walls were as loud as gunshots. The noise vibrating through the alleyway air like the fateful night of murder that had shaken his existence to the core.
Still crushed in the air vent, Bruce’s tears leaked straight onto the thin metal. The traumatic memory was more than he could deal with right now, having Bane just outside. He was brought back to reality by his pure sense of shame, with nowhere to look but at his own reflection, dark and obscure in the reflective metal.
The darkness, the darkness of the shadows in that alleyway had never seemed so ominous. The squeaks of rats and alleyway vermin reminding the younger him of his phobias, now considered petty in light of the true horror he now faced. The reminder of his parents death. And he would relive that moment again and again.
Batman was stuck in the air vent. He was too weak to continue, too compromised psychologically. He simply lay in motionless agony, unable to fight the enemy that lay at his doorstep or stop his own thoughts from tormenting him.
Bane, still on the outside, reluctantly admitted he wasn’t getting anywhere. Giving up on the task, Bane gave a last punch of frustration, leaving a dent in the wall.
Interpreted in Batman’s mind, that final shot rang out and encompassed the now blank and barren cavity of his mind, and echoed as the world fell away, leaving him bare and emotionally empty.
The silence could have been considered peaceful to some, but under a fear toxin that left everything hopeless, made Bruce realize how baren his life was of his only relatives. His only family, his only relations to give him stability and connection to what had value in the world were gone. They had left him, and after long years of avoiding the cold of solitude by embracing it, he was now more alone than ever.
Next thing he realized, he was in the Northwest batcave, the batcave under the Asylum. He had ripped off most of his major armor components in a drugged frenzy. The parts lay scattered about on the catwalks and landing pad.
Just as he had come back to reality he was shoved back into his own head again as the surges of chemicals overpowered his natural brain processes. Leaving him alone in a world far too large for a vulnerable kid holding the keys to the beast of a corporation, Wayne Enterprise. What had that pressure done to him? Where had it gotten him? Hunted by cops as a vigilante for being too irresponsible to handle all the power, hated by others who had been through equally traumatizing experiences, and dying alone in the dark shadows of a damp, cold, cave.
As he continued the panic attack that had started back in the air vent, the unrelenting trauma manifested itself in tears forcing their way out through his squeezed shut eyelids. In all his desperation, he cursed his weakness. He opened his eyes a little to feel the liquid slide down his tired face. Struggling to control his own head, Bruce let out a little sob. To cease his shaking was physically impossible. He just couldn’t fight Dr. Crane’s chemical. He could only allow himself to cower in the dark corner, a being small and insignificant in comparison to the high-tech, expansive batcave.
And with all that had happened he had to question whether any of it was real or if he just belonged in a straight jacket as opposed to a Batsuit at Arkham Asylum.
He wiped the sweat and tears away, smearing the black make-up around his eyes. Ready to try and stand, to walk away from that uncomfortable moment, that unpleasant state of mind. It was all too soon. His legs wobbled, threatening to give way. It was no surprise, with the unstable state he was in. He just felt so weak. So nauseous.
Next moment he was flat on the concrete. Without even feeling it, he had crashed to the ground. He could barely hear a fuzzy voice in the background, warbled by his dulled senses.
Slowly, he placed his normally strong and able arms underneath himself to rise off the ground. But gravity seemed to be abnormally strong in that moment. He scorned himself for thinking he could go anywhere in the state he was in. But if he didn’t get moving, the toxins would kill him. After all, not only was he injected, but he also breathed in the noxious gas.
A dark figure had made its way beside him, helping to lift him upwards. It was startling to see at first, given that Bruce was half dressed as Batman.
Seeing that they were dressed in a suit he couldn’t help but fear the worst, that it was the Joker, that he had found out his identity, his batcave and was going to torture him with newly made tools constructed out of his bat devices.
He fought the arms around him, pushing them away and yelling in resistance. The thought was so frightening it had him spluttering and gasping to get air.
Getting out of the hold of the mystery person, he crawled back. Attempting to get into a defensive position he stared wild eyed at the man.
Only when he noticed that they weren’t wearing purple, or laughing maniacally did he see that they were actually wearing a black tuxedo and the familiar, if not distraught, face of his trustworthy butler, Alfred Pennyworth.
“Master Bruce, can you hear me?” He said for the upteenth time.
“Alfred?” Bruce questioned. The excess tears from before were still crawling down his face, though the relief of having a friend might as well have brought tears to his eyes. “I-I don’t know what’s real right now.” Bruce warned, not relaxing from his defensive position.
“It’s alright now.”
“I’ve been poisoned by Crane.”
“I know, but it’s alright now, I just gave you the antidote.” Alfred explained.
“What?” Bruce looked around at his arms and, noticing a tingling sensation under his skin, vaguely recalled Alfred giving him an injection.
With clarity coming back to him, he became self conscious of his appearance. Bruce wouldn’t have wanted to admit to hiding his tears, but he did find himself looking away as he said:
“What are you doing here, Alfred?” He couldn’t recall his butler ever needing to come to the Northwest Batcave, given it was right under Arkham Asylum.
“Just the usual.”
Alfred was setting his dialogue up just right for Bruce to ask the question ‘what’s that?’ for him to answer with. “Rescuing you.” Or “Saving your ass.” He had experience with the stress of the combat and new how to break tension with snarky comments, humor, and sarcasm. But Bruce was so far gone, there was no reply. He worried Bruce had pushed himself too far this time.
Alfred continued: “I read between the lines in the letters sent out to you and saw a set up intended to catch you off guard.” He explained, “I tried to warn you but, looks like they put up a communications barrier.”
Taking that as a good enough explanation Bruce attempted to rise to his feet. His butler could see he was having trouble with the task and came over to help.
With a heaving sigh, Alfred managed to get the younger man to his feet. He was briefly reminded of the time he had taken him ice skating, as a boy. Had Bruce changed much between the two moments?
“I don’t remember the fear toxin having a paralyzing effect.” Bruce commented.
“Though I hate to be another one of your many problems, I have to admit, there’s a possibility that the antidote might have some after effects.”
“Couldn’t you have just blamed Crane’s toxin?”
“What makes you think i want to give him all the credit?”
Still unstable, despite the help. Bruce felt himself pulling out of Alfred’s grasp in a grunt to fall back to the concrete.
“It’s okay, I can get up on my own this time.” Bruce assured him with a wave.
“Nonsense.” Alfred batted the hand aside and wrapped an arm around his back and under his armpit.
They made their way to the master computer monitor and searched the Wayne tech database for the top notch gas mask. Batman would need it for the fight against Scarecrow.
“Maybe this time I won’t come back here in tears.” Bruce laughed nervously, obviously uncomfortable just thinking about it.
“All those chemicals Dr. Crane’s whipped up in that bad batch, it could send someone as massive as Bane in a frenzy, and it did.” Alfred said supportively.
Bruce still had that uncomfortable grimace on his face, and Alfred wanted to help.
“I’m not going to ask how it went. But are you…” His voice trailed off.
Bruce made the connection though. He was going to ask if he was okay.
Shaking his head slowly he replied: “I had a real bad time, Alfred.” He couldn’t help but cough or possibly sob at his finishing words. Just speaking the name of the most supportive person in his life brought him to tears. Alfred, the figure who had been with him through it all, and he wasn’t dead.
He’d thought the toxin had been eradicated from his system by now. Either remnants still remained or perhaps the memory alone was enough to send him into a relapse.
But Like a forgotten nightmare, Bruce couldn’t recall much of what he had just experienced. All he had was this murky, repulsive thought of the great losses in life and death. It was unclear, but he was sure glad Alfred was there for him now.
Normally it would have been an embarrassment but he accepted the hug and reassuring pats on the back. Naturally (something exclusively for Alfred) he returned the hug
Should he say it? ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you?’ No. He didn’t need to. He was sure Alfred already knew.
“Hate to nag, but, shouldn’t you try to get to taking down Scarecrow now?”
“Sorry, you know me, I try to learn from my mistakes.” Bruce replied, referring to his recent falls and inability to walk.
“Well, I’m still here. Let’s see if we can get you to stand.”
Yes, he was old and frail, but just his kindness and support was enough to keep Bruce stable, and the Batman at work.