This Mad World

Curtain Call

"Hey Boss?" a small, weasel-like voice broke out over the shadows of the dimly-lit theatre, its owner trying to hide the nervous quiver to his words and failing. "We're got this new batch almost done. You want us to start bottling it now and box it up?"

There was a figure standing at the edge of the stage, overlooking the empty seats as if he could imagine a captive audience in front of him. However he was barely visible while he hugged the very edge of the shadows, until he turned his head and the movement of his body gave him away. A dry, raspy chuckle came from him, not at all helped by the strange phlegmy noise in his throat that just made everyone's stomach clench listening to it. "You can if you want," the figure's voice hissed, each word scraping out of his mouth like sandpaper. "Just know that hot liquid being poured into cold glass can crack it, and then the solution will be all over you."

The small group of men winced and looked to one another, then to the table they had set up in the middle of the room. The bright lamp on it provided the only real light in the theatre, like a little halo bathing them in a soft glow while they concocted visions of hell inside of the beakers and equipment strewn across the surface. There was beaker of clear liquid was a centerpiece to it all, hardly 500 milliliters full, yet worth more than a hundred times its weight in gold to those who were willing to pay for it. Despite how ordinary it seemed, the men clutched their masks closer to their faces and stared at it with fearful, suspicious eyes. It sat serenely over a small burner which was heating it just enough for the liquid to be hot and small wisps of steam to rise from the surface, but not to boil. Boiling would ruin it.

And Scarecrow's toxins had to be perfectly prepared each time, or else.

"And if that doesn't kill you," Scarecrow continued, his shoes tapping very softly against the fake wood of the theatre floor, "then I will."

His eyes, wide and very green as they peered out of the holes cut into his burlap mask, glared at them all unblinkingly. The whites were tainted with a haze of yellow and his blood vessels stood starkly against them, but his gaze was clear and sharp and missed absolutely nothing.

They all nodded, for a moment looking quite ridiculous and sycophantic to Scarecrow. A part of him wanted to come over and knock the beaker off the table just to see what their reactions would be. But that would be pointless, a pleasant five minutes of amusement and giddiness as he would watch them panic, and then they would all be dead. Too short and boring. The toxin on the table was simply too potent to give any sort of meaningful, drawn out reactions to take note of and study, victims would just simply panic until they died. Just a drop or two diluted into a gallon of liquid was more than enough to send any victim into nonstop hysterics for fifteen hours, and that wasn't even counting the after effects and all else that would take place.

Perhaps when they were all done, he could indulge his fantasy for a bit. No point in wasting two weeks' worth of effort in a single moment of childish behavior. Who did he look like, Joker? No, no, they were going to finish the mixture, package the final solution for their customers, then leave. By the barrel for gangs who wanted an edge on their rivals in their endless battles for territory, the cheapest and the weakest of the products he offered. But then in contained spray canisters, in vials meant to explode on contact, even in little darts to put inside tranquilizer guns--that was where the real money was--and where his very nice customers came out of the shadows. Even Two-Face was supposed to drop by later, although Scarecrow would make him eat a vial of finished toxin if he tried to get out of paying by doing his inane coin flips again.

Of course with no true answer given, just a threat and "for them to decide," the lackeys decided to take the safer bet and took the beaker off the burner so it would cool, topping it with a lid so no moisture whatsoever could escape. A smart move, even if a time-consuming one. Gotham's most popular theatre was not an ideal place to be, but it was the only place they could afford to be at the moment without getting caught. Anyone seeing activity inside of an abandoned building could report them to the police or, worse, gangs could show up to interrupt their work, and most places in the denser parts of Gotham tended to rub elbows with exactly the kind of people and establishments Scarecrow would rather not have around.