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Fear is nothing new to Bruce Wayne. He's only human, after all, and thus prone to chemical reactions like any other person. Fear of the dark, of being alone, of heights, he's been through it and, most importantly, he's used to it.
Overcoming fear is a lie - all it takes is one wrong step and it'll be back, maybe even worse. Preparation is all one can rely on.
Bruce hadn't been prepared for this.
It's not something people wake up thinking about, even in a place like Gotham, and that says something about how unexpected this is. The blindfold over his eyes isn't a problem, nor is the rough cloth against his arms or the sense of being somewhere he's not supposed to when he has no idea where he is. The fact he's been kidnapped is barely a surprise. It's a problem when he manages to push the blindfold down by rubbing his face against his shoulder and sees.
He can feel his arms spread, his limbs held up by a rope that attaches each of them to wood, he guesses by the texture of it, though gravity does its best to try to pull him down. The moonlight would make the sight of the field and its many corn crops quite lovely for an outsider, alas that isn't the position he's in, unable to see too much of it because of a hat. He's right in the middle of it, stuck, and he struggles futilely against the bonds. The knots weren't made by an expert, that much he can tell, but he only hopes he'll avoid learning what his captor does excel at.
Staying here, at the mercy of whoever finds him, is not a good option, so he continues to wrestle, pushing and pulling and extending his arms, closing his fingers into a first and biting at his shoulder as he tries to claw his way out of the ropes. His legs are wrapped too tightly to allow movement anywhere but at his toes, which he curls as he scratches, twitches, rubs his hands until they burn - his muscles due to exhaustion, yes, but also his skin, chafed and bound to be irritable for weeks. For that, however, he has to get out of here and survive, make it through those weeks.
Birds fly over his head and tweet, frightened into hurrying away from the field.
Except it’s not the field they mind, it’s him. The position he’s in, the feeling of straw over his arms and back, the headpiece attached to his head, those aren’t scattered facts, they are small pieces of the image he is supposed to make.
He is a scarecrow.
There’s no doubt that the man known as the Scarecrow did this to him, be it to share his fear or his identity or whatever it is a twisted mind like his can come up with, and knowing the identity of the one who took him and transformed him in such a way doesn’t put him at ease, not when he knows what he’s capable of.
Where he had known weariness, there is now determination. He has to leave, get out of this place meant to taunt him at best, and with newfound strength, he pulls and drags until he’s gotten the rope loose enough to draw his hand out of it. Once that’s done, he can work on his arm, leaning over to bite and scratch at it until that, too, is free, gradually becoming used to the task as he slips his other hand and arm free, followed by his middle and, at last, his legs. With nothing to hold him and with Bruce leaning over, as soon as the rope around his legs begins to give he falls to the ground, shielding his face with his arms. His feet hang on the rope still and attempting to kick them off only seems to wrap the rope further around them.
Bruce closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He is Bruce Wayne, somewhere in the outskirts of Gotham, and amidst such familiarity, there is nothing to fear. He is not the Scarecrow. He is the person who will make Scarecrow regret this.
Resolve renewed, he opens his eyes and removes the hat, careful not to hurt himself in the process, then carelessly shoves it aside. There will be no replacement for what he was built into. He slides closer to the bar he’d been hanging on and sits, looking at the material around his feet and slowly pulling the ropes aside, removing any vestiges of himself from the scarecrow’s base.
There’s a certain safety in being able to feel all of his body parts, but Bruce can’t enjoy it. He has to go. The straw shoved inside his shirt is taken off and he stands, eyes already adjusted to the darkness, and walks through the field. His movements are slow, both to be quiet and to avoid any possible traps. He’ll make it out. He’ll make it out.
He can barely believe it when he does.
Looking back at the field, he can’t see the frame he’d been attached to and he doesn’t particularly want to. The sun is starting to rise but light doesn’t put him at ease. The nothingness he had found upon making his way out rattles him in a way dark, loneliness, spiders, heights, no typical phobias can.
There’s his flip phone still in his pocket - not a theft, no motivations other than to get to him or, maybe, to get to those around him - and he uses it to call Alfred. He could try another way back, yes, but something inside him compels him to stay, now that he’s out. He feels safe, he feels like safety is an illusion, he feels the need to test everything he feels, and that’s what he does.
There’s unease in his eyes and fatigue in his body but he stays and waits and watches. He watches for birds, for scarecrows, for anything out of the ordinary, and the only thing he finds is Alfred.
Nothing else comes.