A/N: This is what you get when you mix Batman Begins and Stephen King's Carrie with a writer who's fangirl-ing over Cillian Murphy. Basically what happened was that I had just finished reading Carrie, and was struck by how similar Carrie and Crane are. Both were outcasts and loners who were tormented by their peers and raised by ultra-religious authority figures. Both snapped and wreaked havoc on their town.

I wanted to convey the brokenness of Scarecrow's mind and the chaos what was going on, so there are parts that are purposefully not grammatically correct. The writing style is very reminiscent of Carrie, and there are references to the Bible.


When They had wrapped him in the straitjacket he had felt small and suffocated, and the arms of the grey garment reminded him of Grandma's

(jonny you'll burn in hell)

rake hands as they desperately grasped his hair and held him under the water, her voice keening and growing like cymbals tumbling down stairs as she begged God to cleanse this boy, cleanse him of his Science and Blasphemy.

But now he was free of the Asylum, his dreary straitjacket flapping around his scrawny shoulders like a king's robe as the poisoned vapor writhed through the dark air and his mask was on now, and it felt like home, the only home he'd ever had and it was decorated with screams of terror and rolling eyes and foaming mouths and it was glorious. Sharp shrieks rent the air like demons crying from the deepest recesses of hell

(you'll burn in hell, there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth)

, and the vapor that was sweeping through the warped alleys of the Narrows was the adrenaline sweeping through his veins. The night was crackling with fear, the exhilaration o the exhilaration was almost too much to bear, and there was a scratching at his throat and he threw his head back and a primal howl of laughter exploded from his throat. He had won, They were paying now, paying full price for Their insults and pranks and beatings, and soon the whole of Gotham would be on its knees begging him only him for mercy.

Dark, lumpy figures were blooming from the fog then vanishing inconsequentially, and the air was trembling with pure fear. Through the ecstasy, Crane, or what was left of him, whispered that he needed to find a means to navigate the streets of the Narrows, walking wasn't logical, not now. As if on cue a horse rose out of the haze and his hand shot out, thin fingers wrapping around the reins of the beast. The raving creature reared to a halt, its muscles twitching spastically and black-glass eyes bulging, and in one deft leap

(he rode through jerusalem on a colt)

he had swung his long legs over the horse.

Crane reminded him that he had a woman to kill, and he had a vision of Rachel Dawes, her neck snapped to the side, eyes rolled back and red, dark maw of a mouth dying even as she screamed, screamed for the Batman yes the Batman he had to make the Batman pay to save her. Another wild scream of exultation tore from his lips and the horse whinnied too, a pleading whinny that echoed surreally with the other screeches that ricocheted through the Narrows. He leaned forward, and the Scarecrow and his steed disappeared into the mist.

(you shall be free indeed.)