Batman: Scary Truth

• Gotham in late October was a city draped in shadows and cheap plastic pumpkins. Halloween was days away, and for Batman, it was the best time of year to haunt the streets. Fear was already in the air, and Gotham’s underbelly was extra cautious, extra superstitious. The night had been quiet until the sound of shouting cut through the stillness near a gas station. A man was thrashing in the parking lot, screaming at nothing, clawing at the air as if invisible hands were all over him. Batman approached like a shadow and the man’s panic spiked when he saw him, stumbling back and babbling nonsense about eyes in the dark. It took only seconds for Batman to restrain him, but the look in the man’s eyes stuck. Pure terror, unbroken by reason. Batman handed the man over to GCPD custody after low-key collecting a saliva sample, and went on his way. 

• Back in the Batcave, the glow of the computer’s monitors bathed the dark stone walls as Alfred and Robin looked on. The readout on the screen told the real story, the man was no addict, no drifter. He was a high-achieving Gotham University student, top marks, no history of substance abuse, schizophrenia, or instability of any kind. But the toxicology report showed an unknown compound in his system. Batman’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, “This wasn’t a breakdown,” he said, “It was induced.” The mystery had begun.

• The scene shifted to a clean room of a university research lab, its walls bare except for the slow tick of a clock that somehow made the silence heavier. An understimulated college student sat slouched in a chair, fiddling with the clipboard on his lap, clearly more interested in the compensation than whatever “psychological study” he’d signed up for. The door opened without ceremony, and in stepped Dr. Jonathan Crane. His presence was tall and deliberate, like a man who’d already decided the outcome of this meeting. In his hands, he held a strange burlap mask, which he slipped over his head without explanation. The student gave an awkward laugh, “Uh… so… do I get my twenty bucks now or after?” Crane’s voice came muffled but cold through the rough fabric, “Oh… you’ll earn it.” Before the boy could respond, a hiss of compressed gas filled the small room. A faint, earthy chemical scent hung in the air. The student’s chuckle died in his throat, replaced by a trembling breath. His eyes darted around, then locked on the floor, where a single black spider crawled into view. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the linoleum was teeming with them, skittering up chair legs, spilling across his shoes, swarming toward his lap. He screamed and kicked, trying to swipe them away, but his hands felt heavy, slow, useless. Then a monstrous one, its legs impossibly long, its mandibles slick, rose up in front of his face. Crane didn’t move to help. He stepped closer, tilting his head as though watching a lab rat navigate a maze, “Yes… yes, feel it. Let it consume you. That… is the truth of fear.” The boy thrashed and sobbed, lost in his private nightmare, while Crane simply observed, taking notes as if this were nothing more than data collection, and not sadistic psychological torture.

• The hum of the Batcomputer filled the cavern as Bruce stood at the console, scanning the latest reports while Dick leaned casually against the workbench, sipping from a can of soda. Batman turned toward him, his cape brushing the floor, “I’m heading back out alone tonight,” he said flatly, “Halloween week. Criminals are jumpier than usual, makes the job easier.” Robin smirked, feigning offense, “Yeah, yeah… I know. I’m just not scary enough to come with ya.” “You will be,” Batman replied, like a hopeful promise, “One day, you’ll be a better symbol than even myself.” Dick’s smile faltered, the words landing heavier than he expected. That’s a lot to live up to. Batman didn’t linger on it, “While I’m out, I have another assignment for you. Independent recon.” Robin straightened, setting down his drink, “Shoot. No trick-or-treating for me then,” he said sarcastically. “You’re good at it,” Batman said flatly, “There’s a compound in that student’s tox report. Trace elements that aren’t easy to get. Ace Chemicals distributes it in limited batches. I want you to find out where they’ve been sending it.” Robin gave a confident nod, “Your wish is my command.” They moved toward the exit with their missions. The Batmobile engine roared to life, and within moments, they split off into the night.

• The next morning, we see Gotham City University’s lecture hall where Dr. Jonathan Crane stood at the podium in his usual teaching attire. His lean frame was slightly hunched as he scribbled something on the whiteboard. FEAR, in sharp, capital letters. He spoke in a calm, deliberate cadence, “Fear,” he began, pacing the front of the room, “is not a mere reflex. It is a biochemical symphony. Adrenal glands flood the bloodstream with cortisol. The amygdala lights up like a bonfire. Your heart races. Muscles tighten. Oo. Breaths shorten. It is the oldest weapon in nature’s arsenal… AND the most effective.” A few students nodded, taking notes. Others exchanged bored glances, until Crane’s eyes swept over the room like a hawk scanning for prey, “Shall we have a volunteer,” he asked. A soft ripple of laughter moved through the lecture hall. “I’m not joking,” Crane replied flatly. The laughter died instantly. Eyes darted away from his gaze. But then, a girl in the front row made the mistake of glancing up. “You,” Crane said, smiling thinly. She froze, “Oh… uh—” “Come along,” he urged, gesturing her forward with a hand that seemed both inviting and predatory. Under the weight of a hundred stares, she rose and walked stiffly to the front. “Sit,” he directed, pulling a chair into the center of the room. As she sat, he tilted his head, “Would you like to be tied up?” Her eyes widened, and a murmur rolled through the room. “That’s a joke,” Crane said with the barest hint of amusement, “You may laugh.” The class gave an awkward, stilted chuckle, their unease palpable. Then Crane reached under his suit coat and drew out a revolver. The air in the room froze solid. The girl’s eyes went wide, her breath became shallow, trying not to make eye contact with the weapon. “Observe,” Crane said as he circled her, “Dilated pupils. Increased heart rate. Hands trembling.” He gestured with the gun in sweeps as he listed each physiological response, “The amygdala has taken control, overriding logic. Every instinct screams ‘danger’… but there is no lion here. Only me.” He stopped directly in front of her, the revolver rising until the barrel aimed between her eyes. Her heart-wrenching scream shattered the silence. Crane smiled faintly, turned to the class, and bowed, “Thank you.” The girl sat shaking, tears streaming down her face. No one spoke. And then Crane delivered his final punctuation, “People pretend that their fear can be ignored. We tell ourselves the boogeyman isn’t real. But unlike the monsters in your closet… this is real.” He snapped the gun down toward the carpeted floor. BANG! The shot rang through the hall. The girl collapsed, fainting. Students scrambled for the doors, some shouting, others pale and silent. Crane simply spread his arms with a shrug and a grin, “See?”

• Cut to a day later and a thin shaft of afternoon light cut through the blinds in Dr. Helena Bertinelli’s office, as she makes a dent in the stacks of essays on her coffee ring-stained desk. She sat hunched over her pile of freshman lit papers when the shadow fell over her. Her head jerked up, only to find the tall silhouette every Gothamite knew, framed in the doorway. “Batman,” she breathed, but her gaze shifted to the smaller figure stepping in behind him, “And… Robin, I see.” Batman kept his voice to a deliberate growl, “We need to ask you some questions regarding the university.” Her brow furrowed, “You know there’s this thing where you can call the head office, right?” “You’ve helped us before, in your.. other uniform. I know I can trust you,” Batman declared. Robin stepped forward, brisk but respectful, “Ace Chemicals logs show a shipment came here, to GCU. The exact chemical mix matches what we found in the bloodstream of a recent victim. We need to know who received the components.” Batman continued, “Is there is anybody you know of in the chemistry department that may harbor unsavory characteristics? Somebody that may be worth checking into?”  Helena leaned back in her chair, tossing her pen aside, “If you’re fishing for a shady chemist breaking bad, you’re barking up the wrong tree. That department’s full of boring nerds. They wouldn’t jaywalk, let alone poison somebody.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, “If you want weird? Try the psych department. That’s where we keep the prize lunatics.” Batman’s eyes narrowed, “Elaborate.” She gave him a look like he’d just asked if ice was cold, “You haven’t heard? Aren’t you supposed to be some great detective or something? One of their professors got canned yesterday. Whole thing’s had to made its way past the faculty lounge by now.” Robin pleaded, “What happened?” Helena smirked grimly, “Oh, nothing big. Some psycho just pulled a revolver in the middle of a lecture and shot it.” Robin blinked, “Was anyone hurt?” “No,” she said, “Unless you count the poor girl he scared half to death, oh and and his career of course. Security had him out of the building before the smoke cleared and he was fired immediately afterward. Part of some ridiculous point he was trying to make about fear.” Batman and Robin exchanged a quick, loaded glance. This was exactly the kind of thing that fit their profile. “What’s his name,” Batman demanded. “Dr. Jonathan Crane.” “Thank you, Doctor,” Batman turned to leave with Robin already moving toward the door, but Helena’s voice cut through the air, “Wait.” Batman paused in the doorway, the faintest tension tightening his shoulders.

• Batman stopped mid-stride, his cape settling against the doorway. Slowly, he turned back, Helena’s sharp gaze locking on his cowl. “Little birdie,” she said, tilting her head toward Robin in the hall, “grown-ups need a moment.” The boy gave a small shrug, clearly unbothered, and stepped out, closing the door behind him. The room seemed to shrink once they were alone. Helena leaned back against her desk, arms crossed, but there was no mistaking the challenge in her posture, “You know, I’ve been thinking,” she began, her voice cool but edged with something deeper, “You know my secret identity. You know where I work, where I live, hell, probably what I had for breakfast. But me? I don’t get the same courtesy.” “That’s not how this operation works,” Batman said flatly. She scoffed, unfolding her arms, “Oh, so pee-wee out there gets to know, but not me? What makes him so special?” Batman’s tone didn’t change, “Robin is my protegey.” Her expression softened, but only slightly, as she stepped forward, slow, deliberate, closing the space between them, “And I can be your partner,” she said, voice low, carrying an undercurrent of something more than professional, “Or at least…I can be.” Her hand lifted toward his face, fingers brushing the edge of his cowl, “If you want this partnership to go further, you need to let me in.” In a flash, his gloved hand closed around her wrist, not rough, but firm enough to make his point. His voice was a deep, unyielding rumble, “This is as far as it goes.” Her eyes flickered, the hint of vulnerability buried beneath frustration, “Funny how you’ve just decided that for the both of us.” Batman didn’t respond. Helena finished, “It’s okay, I have a safe nice guy option anyways.” He let her wrist go, turned, and walked out without looking back, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to linger.

• Jonathan Crane sat hunched over a battered coffee table, the dim yellow glow of a single lamp cutting through the gloom of his cramped apartment. Scattered around him were open textbooks, beakers of cloudy liquid, and pages of feverish handwritten notes. His voice muttered low and sharp, like a man in conversation with a ghost only he could hear. “They don’t understand what it means to be a scholar,” he rasped, scribbling an equation before scratching it out violently. “They never cared. Not about real education. Not about truth. All they want is comfortable lies in neat little lecture slides. Not a master of his content.” His hands trembled from something more dangerous tha fear, raw obsession. He ground his teeth, mixing a thick amber liquid in a glass vial, “They call me dangerous,” he muttered, a bitter laugh spilling out. “They fire me… for teaching them the only lesson that matters.” The vial hissed faintly as he sealed it, his eyes narrowing, “They’ll see,” he whispered, “They’ll all see. Starting with the idiot who fired me. And they will understand…I am the master of fear.” He rose from the table in a deliberate, ceremonial way, moving to a wardrobe in the corner. Inside hung his creation, a weathered burlap mask stitched into a grotesque face, a battered hat, and a patchwork coat lined with hidden pockets for his tools of terror. Crane’s hands slid into the sleeves, pulled the mask over his head, and straightened the brim of the hat. In the flicker of the lamp, Jonathan Crane no longer seemed to exist. In his place stood the Scarecrow.

• From behind the warped eyeholes of his burlap mask, Scarecrow crouched low in the shadows, his breathing slow, quiet, and deliberate. Through the glowing pane of the GCU president’s window. He watched the gray-haired man who had signed his letter of termination. The president sat comfortably in an armchair beside his wife, the light of the television flickering over their faces. Every so often, he would rise to answer the occasional cheerful chime of trick-or-treaters at the door, handing out candy with an oblivious smile. Scarecrow lingered there for long minutes that fly by, drinking in the domestic serenity, letting the anticipation build like the tightening coil of a spring. His gloved fingers flexed around the canister at his side. Let’s see what hides beneath that calm, respectable exterior. He stepped out of the shadows, boots crunching against the fallen leaves, and ascended the porch steps. His hand hovered over the doorbell, ready to introduce terror into this tidy, perfect home, when the sharp growl of an engine tore through the quiet suburb. The Batmobile screeched to a halt at the curb. The canopy hissed open, and out stepped Batman, with Robin vaulting down beside him. “Crane! Stop this madness!” Batman’s voice cut through the night like a whipcrack. For a heartbeat, Scarecrow froze. Then his entire body trembled, but not with fear, instead with giddy exhilaration, “Batman…” he breathed, before straightening to his full height, “Oh, this must be the greatest Halloween ever. The maestro of fear himself… come to me?” Before the tension could snap, a gaggle of costumed children rounded the corner, their eyes going wide at the sight of Gotham’s Dark Knight and his armoured car. Squeals of delight filled the air as they rushed forward. Batman’s head snapped toward Robin, “Get them out of here. Now.” Robin moved to herd the kids away, but Scarecrow’s excitement shattered into outrage, “No! No!” His voice was ragged and furious, “That’s not the Batman I love! My Batman is fear incarnate. Terror in the bones of Gotham’s sinners!” He jabbed a finger at the scene, his voice rising, “And you’ve let it rot into this, this parade act! I will fix this dilusion!” In one swift motion, Scarecrow ripped the cap off his pressurized canister and swung it toward the cluster of children. A sickly hiss filled the air as a dense, amber-tinted mist erupted from the nozzle, engulfing Robin and the kids. The children’s giggles dissolved into shrieks. Crane threw his head back, laughing manically, “Now, that’s the true spirit of Halloween!” From the kids’ perspective, the world warped and twisted, the dark figure of Batman stretching impossibly tall, his cape flaring into jagged wings, his cowl morphing into something grotesquely inhuman. Their candy bags hit the ground as they scattered in terror, screaming, running for somewhere to hide.

• What the terrified children couldn’t see was that Batman himself had staggered back, gloved hands clutching at his cowl as if he could physically tear the hallucination out of his mind. Batman’s breath came in short, strained bursts. The edges of reality bled away like ink in water, and suddenly, he wasn’t standing on a suburban lawn anymore. He was eight years old again. Sitting in the plush velvet seat of the Monarch Theatre, swinging his legs impatiently in the audience of the play, The Mark of Zorro. His young voice, higher, prepubesant, complained to his parents, “This is boring. Can we just go?” His father’s warm hand squeezed his shoulder, his mother gave a small indulgent smile, and they rose together. They slipped out the back for a shortcut, their footsteps echoing down the narrow alley. And then the world fractured. A faceless man stepped from the shadows. The gleam of a pistol, the crack of two deafening gunshots. Thomas Wayne crumpled forward, Martha’s scream tore the night, and her pearls scattered across wet pavement. Leaving young Bruce was alone, utterly alone, staring at the bodies as rain began to fall. And then Alfred was there, face drawn and voice shaking, “This is all your fault, Master Bruce. If not for your selfishness…” The words twisted like knives, his eyes cold, his voice dripping with accusation. The scene dissolved. Now Harvey Dent, Two-Face, was standing over a bloody Commissioner Gordon, slapping cold steel handcuffs onto the man’s wrists. His ruined grin stretched impossibly wide, “Eventually, even the most heroic of us all end up killers around you.” Another lurch, another shift. Catwoman. Selina’s face inches from his, lips brushing his. But mid-kiss, her body went slack. He pulled back to see her eyes lifeless, a crossbow bolt jutting from her chest. Huntress stood just behind her, a smirk breaking across her face, “Now you’re mine.” But when Batman recoiled, when fear flashed in his eyes, she sneered, “Fine, then. Now nobody can have you,” and turned the crossbow on herself, pulling the trigger without hesitation. The sound of the bolt firing bled into another nightmare, the hiss of something tightening. Young Dick Grayson dangled in Deathstroke’s grip, the assassin’s arm locked around his neck. Dick’s face was turning purple, his lips trembling as he managed, “This… never would’ve happened… if it wasn’t for you…” His body went limp, tossed aside like nothing more than garbage. Batman’s heart pounded in his ears, and the smell of rot, blood, and rain all churned together. Fear clawed at every inch of his mind, each image more vicious and personal than the last.

• Then, SOCK! The sharp crack of Robin’s heel slamming into his jaw rattled the nightmare maze. Batman’s head snapped to the side, his ears still ringing with phantom screams, but the suffocating visions began to thin, the hazy edges of reality bleeding back in. Through the fog, he saw Robin, eyes wild, fists clenched, charging at him again. “Robin-- stop!” Batman barked, but his ward didn’t give up. They traded blows, Batman holding back, defending rather than striking, deflecting each furious hit. Through the clash of limbs and the thud of boots on wet grass, there was another sound, high unhinged delighted. Scarecrow’s laugh. Batman’s eyes locked on him. Crane, swaying with manic glee, clutching his toxin canister like a prize. It was enough to shove Bruce’s instincts into overdrive. Still countering Robin’s flurry, he began advancing toward the deranged figure, step by step. Crane noticed the shift, his voice climbing into a taunting shriek, “Come to me, Batman! Let’s see how you can handle another dose!” He yanked the canister up, the nozzle aimed squarely at Batman’s cowl, but this time, the Dark Knight was faster. His gauntleted hand shot up, gripping the barrel of the device with brutal force, twisting it away, right back toward its wielder. A hiss of vapor blew up in Crane’s face. The change was instant. Crane’s pupils blew wide. His manic laughter shattered, replaced by a scream so raw it didn’t sound human. He stumbled backward, clawing at his mask as if something unspeakable was right in front of him. Batman didn’t wait to watch. In one smooth motion, he fired his grapple, the cord whipping out and wrapping around Robin’s torso. With a pull and a click, the boy was yanked backward and secured against the trunk of a nearby tree, safely restrained and out of the fight. Scarecrow was still shrieking when his trembling hands dove into his tattered pocket. He pulled out a small medical auto-injector, fumbling to jam it into his thigh. Batman caught his wrist mid-motion, snatching the auto-injector for himself. “This is the antidote,” he growled, recognizing Crane’s desperation. From his belt, he pulled a syringe and syphons off a small sample to keep for analysis back at the lab. Then, without hesitation, he removed the antidote vial from the injector, tossed it high into the air along with a remote detinator. He clicked a small trigger in his other hand and concussive pop burst overhead, scattering the vial’s contents into a fine mist that rained down across the yard. The antidote swept over the sidewalk, neighbor’s lawns, and the trembling children nearby. One by one, the haunted expressions began to fade. Breathing steadied. Screams fell to sniffles. Robin slumped in his restraints, the fight draining from his eyes. Even Scarecrow, still twitching, was beginning to blink through the fog of his own nightmare. The night air felt a little lighter but the silence everyone felt for themselves afterward was almost heavier.

• At Arkham, Aaron Cash accepted Crane without ceremony, dragging the muttering Scarecrow off into the asylum’s dark bowels. Batman hadn’t said a word during the handoff, and Robin stayed in the car. On the ride back to the Batcave, Bruce and Dick sit in still mostly shaken silence. Now, the streets were behind them, and the jagged mouth of the Batcave loomed ahead. The tires came to a rest on the platform and just before Bruce killed the engine, Dick finally broke the silence. “…What did you see?” Batman’s hand lingered on the controls, but his eyes were somewhere far away. The images hit without warning, his parents' stillness, Helena’s accusing glare, Dick’s lifeless body sprawled at his feet. A knot twisted in his chest, “I saw what I didn’t want to see,” he said flatly. He climbed out of the driver’s seat without another glance. Dick stayed behind, frowning at his mentor’s back, “That’s it?” he called. Batman stopped, turned slightly, but didn’t answer. From the shadows of the upper stairs, Alfred descended, his presence calmly watchful. Dick hopped out of the passenger side and met Batman halfway, frustration in his voice, “Oh, c’mon, Bruce. After what we just went through? You’re not gonna let me in?” Bruce’s head turned sharply, the tension in his voice unmistakable, “No.” Both Alfred and Dick froze at the intensity. But something shifted in Bruce’s expression, an awareness that Dick had been through his own personal hell tonight. He straightened up, his tone softer but still demanding, “What about you, then?” Batman asked, “What did you see in place of my figure?” Dick hesitated, jaw working, “No… ya know, that’s the thing. Apparently I didn’t get it as bad as you. I was seeing Batman.” The silence that followed was thick. Dick’s eyes dropped, “…Except you weren’t the one wearing the mask. And I hated it.” “Dick…” Bruce stepped forward, extending a hand. But Dick turned his shoulder away, angling toward Alfred, “You know what, Batman? Don’t even try. It’s too much. I’m not you. I don’t want to be destined to become you. I just can’t pretend to try anymore. I’m done.” Batman felt a catch in his throat as he truly understood where Dick Grayson was coming from.The words hit hard yet honest and he didn’t move to stop him. Robin just walked back up the stairs and out of the Batcave. Alfred cautioned, “Master Dick…” and he just replied, “Goodbye, Alfred,” and didn’t look back.

• In the post-credit scene, we open on Roy Harper in some trashy apartment. He sits hunched on a battered couch, elbows on his knees, sweat beading on his forehead. His bow leans within arm’s reach, but it’s not for show, his hands tremble just from holding himself together. Every so often, he twitches, a cold shiver running through him. The symptoms of withdrawal has its claws in deep. A faint clink echoes from the next room. Roy’s jittery head snaps toward the sound, muscles tightening. Another rustle follows, and he’s on his feet, bow in hand, an arrow nocked before he even registers the movement. Each step toward the noise is slow and deliberate, the tip of his arrow tracking the doorway like a predator’s gaze. He rounds the corner, and freezes. Robin stands at the sink, a spoon in one hand and an open pudding cup in the other. The Boy Wonder spits the last mouthful into the drain with exaggerated disgust, “YUCKK!” he blurts, dropping the cup in the sink, “You really should keep an eye on the expiration date with these!” Roy exhales hard, lowering his bow, relief and annoyance mingling in his voice, “Jeez, Rob, I could’ve killed you over that.” Robin glances over his shoulder with something gentler behind his eyes, “I’m not so sure about that. We both know you haven’t exactly been shooting straight lately.” The sting of truth lands, and Roy lets his arms fall completely. His gaze drops, “…What are you even doing here?” “I’ve been thinking about starting a little club,” Robin says, stepping away from the sink, “And you sure look like you could use a friend.” For the first time in weeks, Roy’s mouth twitches into a small, genuine smile, “So… just the two of us, then?” Robin inhales through his teeth, wincing a little, “You might not like to hear this… but you’re actually the second guy I’ve invited.” Roy’s face immediately shifts to pleading suspicion, “Oh please, no. Don’t tell me it’s that one spaz.” Robin’s expression turns apologetic, “What can I say? He’s got talent.” Before Roy can reply, there’s a sharp knock on the grungy apartment door. “WELL?” the yell of Wally West leaks into the room, “What did he say?” Roy tilts his head back with a groan of pure frustration. Robin just pats his arm and says with a knowing grin, “I promise, he grows on you quick.”