Chapter One: Fear Thrives In The Dark

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5 Months After Dick Grayson's Death...

There was nothing. His eyes were met with a void through which no light penetrated. It was the pit, the pit that he had visited so often during his employment at Arkham, but now he sat in the dark, eyes focused and his breathing quiet. There was nothing in that void but the water dripping from the corroded pipes onto the tiled floor. It echoed. Again and again it would drip. Pat, pat, pat...
     To a normal man, this would be unbearable, but not him. Instead, he sat and waited, until he was greeted by the light. It blinded him for just a moment, but the silhouette of a man and two others loomed over him. His eye's fluttered, adjusting to the light that had denied him for so long.
     "Doctor Crane," the voice called out.
     "Doctor Absonus," Crane replied, his arms resting on the bed, legs crossed, and filth-ridden fingers interlocked.
     "You need invest in neither formalities nor aliases, Jonathan."
      Scarecrow eyed the two men standing ajar. "Then I trust you have secured your control over the Asylum?"
     "Fully."
     "And the Batman?"
     "Gone," swiftly replied the Doctor, "just as you predicted."
     "Fear asserts its power over even the Batman, and remorse is but the first step in the Batman's destruction."
     "Indeed," replied the doctor, dismissive and uninterested.
     "However, before your plan is enacted I require more time to position the Penguin and Two-Face's men."
     "Well done, Strange," said Scarecrow through his teeth. He stood, his lanky, towering figure challenging that of the silhouette. "You have been the kindest of friends and the most useful of assets. Your hand in discovering his identity was but the first of the many gifts you have bestowed upon me."
     Strange smiled, bathing in his own self-worth.
"However," said Scarecrow stepping towards him, "I'm afraid this is where part ways."
     "I don't understand, Crane," Strange admitted, swallowing his spit.
     With a swift motion, Crane grasped Hugo by the neck, plunging him into the cell. "You have provided me with your last bucket of milk, as it were, and the only thing that remains is slaughter."
     Strange scrambled to his feet. "Crane, you imbecile! You need me!"
     "Needed," Crane corrected, "but your usefulness has expired."
     "Crane! We had a deal!"
     "You were inhospitable, Doctor Strange," Scarecrow called out into the cell. His shadow loomed over Hugo, almost blocking whatever light still penetrated the door. "And I believe it is time for you to witness what it is like to be a patient in our beloved Arkham Asylum."
     Strange said nothing. He was left gaping. His trembling hand rose to adjust his broken glasses.
     "I leave you to your imagination," Scarecrow said, finally breaking the silence, "and, in turn, your fears. Goodbye, Doctor."
     "N-no! No!" Strange yelled, his throat barely able to conjure the words.
     Crane grasped the heavy iron door with and ironclad fist, pushing it forward and glaring at Hugo with his clouded gaze. It slammed shut. It denied Hugo the light. It left him with nothing. Nothing but his thoughts and the sound of dripping water.

     The crisp autumn air whistled throughout the graveyard, maneuvering through the tombstones and into Barbara's auburn hair. The sun touched Barbara's face with its warm glow. She thrusted her arms forward, gripping the worn rubber wheels, the dead, dry, brown grass crunching under her. Her hands came to a rest upon her legs and she stilled. The 3 tombstones loomed over her, blocking out the sun's warmth and glow and leaving a deathly shadow cast by the mistakes of the past.
     Barbara brushed her hand across the marble, removing the grime that had accumulated during Gotham's acidic rains. She sighed, looking down at dirt beneath her, it bearing no grass or life but rather lifelessness.
     "I miss him, too," a voice called out from behind her.
     She whipped around, startled, but found relief in Tim Drake's eyes. He wore a tux -finely cut- and bore white roses within his hands.
     Barbara turned back to the grave and sighed. "I just can't believe he's gone," she explained.
"None of us can," Tim responded, his voice almost shaky but controlled. "It happened so fast."
     Barbara nodded, looking back at Tim.
     He stared at the tombstone, gripping the roses ever so tightly. His teeth clenched in anger. "But it happened. He's gone." And so is Bruce."
"Tim, Dick meant more to Bruce than any of us knew."
"Bruce should have let you help him. If he did, Dick might not have been dead!"
"Tim... Bruce was trying to protect-"
"You. From what? Himself? Look where that got us."
"You know he was under that drug, Tim! He wasn't himself! If he hadn't left me-"
     "What happened to you, Barbara? Don't you remember?! Crane still caught you! He made us watch everything, and you could have been there to help!" Tim yelled, his voice booming past, then lost in the howls of wind.
Barbara said nothing, bowing her head.
"That's right! It's his fault he's dead. If he had just let us help! If he had... I should have been there. We should have. He might have lived..."
     "Tim, it isn't your fault," Barbara said, placing her hand on his shoulder. Tim nodded, brushing away a tear that dwindled on his swollen cheek.
     "You're right," he nodded. "It isn't," he concluded, scowling.
Barbara wiped her eyes and inhaled, her breaths shaky. "It's ok, Tim. It's all going to be all right."
"It's never," Tim got out, "...going to be all right.'" Tim stood, placing the roses in her lap. "Goodbye, Dick," he whispered. Tim glossed over Barbara, leaving her as his made his way to the weathered gate.
Barbara sat there, alone. She looked at the grave once more and covered her mouth. She trembled, tears pouring out of red eyes. "Goodbye, Dick," she said, placing the roses on the grave. Barbara extended her hand to the tombstone, feeling the engraved letters. Beloved Son. Fly to the heavens.

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