What Dreams May Come

Batman hated Halloween.

He hated seeing people wandering around in cheap replicas of his costume everywhere. He hated seeing people dressing up like his enemies as if they were some form of joke. But most of all, he hated that he would have to spend the night being vigilant of yet another Scarecrow scheme.

Regular as clockwork, every year Professor Jonathan Crane had a scheme to fear gas Gotham in some way. The other rogues left him to it – one day out of the year wasn't worth fighting over. And Crane prided himself on being the physical embodiment of the holiday, the personification of Halloween and everything it stood for – the triumph of fear. He lived for this night of the year more than any other, Batman knew that.

Which was why Batman was crouched on a gargoyle in the pouring rain, his eyes scanning the slick streets, gradually emptying of trick-or-treaters as the night grew darker.

He sighed, glancing up at the full moon hidden in the drizzle of clouds. On nights like this, when the chill of the rain trickled through the cracks in his armor and made him shiver as the coldness crept under his skin, he often wondered how he had come to this. Obviously the tragedy of his parents' death had inspired him to fight crime, but to do it like this, out in the cold and wind and rain wearing a costume while searching for other costumed freaks, sometimes seemed objectively ridiculous. When he had all the money in the world, when he could pay to put more cops on the street, or even form his own law enforcement branch or strike team, he often wondered why he felt the need to combat crime as just one man in a mask.

The reason was mostly because the desire felt personal, and he didn't want others needlessly dragged into his vendetta against crime, getting hurt by bad people the way his parents had been for his sake. But one man could only do so much against the evil of the world. And somewhere inside him, Batman feared, and knew, it would never be enough.

He shook off the rain and his gloomy thoughts, drawing his cape about him as he scanned the streets again. Rumors had been going around that Crane would strike at the Elliot Memorial Hospital – gassing a bunch of helpless patients to make them hallucinate their deepest fears seemed just like the sick sort of thing Crane would enjoy. Batman wondered briefly, as he always did about his enemies, how a mind got that messed up – how the events of a life could conspire to break a man's mind, through the experiences he had and the way he reacted to them. Of course some people might accuse Batman of being as crazy as the people he fought – he had had that accusation leveled at him many times. But Batman knew in his heart that he wasn't crazy, that the difference between him and his enemies was that he used his powers to do good and help others, rather than harm them. Well, it was true he harmed the occasional street thug, and the supercriminals repeatedly, but they deserved it by continuing to try to hurt other people. Batman saw himself as a dispenser of justice, and that was justice – inflicting the same harm on them that they would happily inflict on others.

He grappled across the rooftops, heading toward the hospital. He landed on the roof, cutting through the lock on the skylight and then heading through it into the building. In the attic of the hospital, old machines and equipment were stored, casting weird shadows in the moonlight. Batman's eyes scanned the darkness, looking around for some sign of life…

And then he gasped suddenly as he was struck across the back of the head with a lead pipe. Whirling around to face his attacker, he was met with a huge cloud of yellow gas, choking him. He gasped and coughed, just able to make out the grinning face of Scarecrow through the haze.

"A very happy Halloween to you, Batman," he murmured. "I think you'll enjoy my extra strength toxin very much – it slips through the conscious cracks of the mind and brings the submerged terrors and fears of the subconscious, those terrors and fears we're too scared to even admit, let alone confront, clawing to the surface of the brain in stark reality. And nothing your mind can do can break you out of the vision – especially not a mind as broken as yours."

Batman fell to the ground, the shadows whirling and spinning around him. His vision began to conjure up strange forms in the darkness, familiar and yet unfamiliar, uncanny in his inability to recognize people he knew. The uncertain forms began to shuffle toward him, grasping at him, clawing at him, their faces welcoming one instant and in the next transformed into hideous ghouls, faces of the dead eaten away by maggots, the faces of his parents that he loved twisted into demons, demons with glowing eyes and bat wings. He kept gasping for breath, coughing, choking on the fetid air of the hospital which seemed to taste of death and decay and eternal darkness…

"Dr. Crane, what on earth are you doing?" snapped a voice.

Batman slowly opened his eyes, blinking, to a bright, sterile light. He had obviously passed out from Crane's fear gas attack, and had been taken to a hospital, he thought, looking at the clean white walls and ceilings, and the standard issue bed. But this wasn't the Elliot Memorial Hospital where he had passed out, he realized, recognizing the architecture of the room even as he recognized it as a medical facility. This was Arkham Asylum.

And Batman received a second shock to see the person standing by his bed. It was the Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, dressed not in his usual costume, but in a doctor's uniform and lab coat, looking down his glasses at him and making some notes on a clipboard he carried. Crane turned at the voice in the doorway, coming from a figure hidden in shadow.

"I was just checking on Mr. Wayne's condition…" began Crane.

"No, you were worsening Mr. Wayne's condition by trying out your controversial fear therapy method on him," snapped the voice. "We've talked about this, Crane. While your theories may be sound, I simply cannot allow you to experiment on the lunatics like this. They are very sick people, and they need care and rest, not to be frightened half to death by your homemade fear toxin!"

"But you always try out your experimental therapy methods on Mr. Wayne," snapped Crane. "And so do most of the others…"

"I have a lot more faith in Dr. Isley's herbal remedies and Dr. Tetch's mind machines than I do in your obsession with frightening lunatics half to death," retorted the voice. "Hell, I even have more faith in Dr. Nygma's ridiculous conundrums – at least they only annoy the patients rather than actively harm them!"

"They must be harmed a little before they can get better," retorted Crane. "Pain is a great teacher – it makes the human mind stronger, and can sometimes provide the needed jolt to break it out of madness…"

"Or to break it entirely," finished the voice. "Mr. Wayne is in this mess because the pain he suffered from his parents' death had such a jolting effect on his mind. Now he needs rest and relaxation and caring, gentle, positive therapy. So no more fear toxin, Crane, or I'm going to have to demand your resignation."

Crane's face twisted into an expression of annoyance, but he muttered, "Very well. As you wish, Doctor."

"Thank you. Now if you'll just leave Dr. Quinzel and me to assess the patient and make sure he's not too shaken from his latest fear gas attack."

Crane nodded, heading for the door. Batman's mind was in a whirl of confusion – he didn't have the slightest idea what was going on, or why his enemies were playing doctor, or how they seemed to know he was Bruce Wayne. It had to be some horrible Halloween prank – the inmates had taken over Arkham Asylum and were pretending they were in charge and he was the lunatic. That had to be it. He needed to hurry up and get out of here and set things right.

He tried to move, but found that he was strapped down to the bed. He fought against the restraints, but they held tight, as he recognized a familiar figure entering the room. Although she too was dressed how Batman had first seen her, as a respectable psychiatrist rather than as Joker's sidekick, Harley Quinn.

"Harley, get me out of this right now!" he snapped.

"Mr. Wayne, please calm down before you hurt yourself," she said, gently. "You're safe now – there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. And how many times must I ask you to call me Dr. Quinzel?"

"It's no worse than what he calls me, Harley," sighed the voice who had spoken to Crane, coming from the man who now approached Batman, and who Batman stared at it in horror. He knew this man – this man no longer had a clown face and a horrible, grinning smile, but he was unmistakable, even with his inexplicable transformation back into a normal-looking human being.

"Joker," he gasped.

"That's right, Mr. Wayne," sighed Joker, who wasn't dressed like himself either – he wore a sensible lab coat over a green shirt and a purple tie. "If it helps for you to call me the Joker, you can. Just like you want me to call you Batman, isn't that right?"

"I…I am Batman," stammered Batman. "And I don't know what the hell is going on, but whatever horrible trick you're playing, this isn't funny!"

"No, Mr. Wayne," murmured Joker. "No, it's not. Your mental illness is no laughing matter to me, nor are your delusions. You are a very sick man, and everyone here is just trying to help you get better."

"You help me?" demanded Batman. "That's not a funny joke either, Joker! I'm not the crazy one here – you are!"

"Dr. J, he's getting agitated again," spoke up Harley. "Perhaps a sedative is called for?"

"Yes, I think so, Dr. Quinzel," agreed Joker. "We'll speak again soon, Mr. Wayne, when you've had time to recover from your little fright by Dr. Crane. But please rest assured that everyone in here is your friend, not your enemies, and we are all trying to help cure you. And I have every hope that you can be cured, Mr. Wayne. I have every hope that you can kill this demon inside you, this demon that you created out of your own delusions and your inability to cope with seeing your parents murdered in front of your eyes. I have every hope that with our help, you can kill the Batman."

"What…" began Batman, but Harley had injected him with something that made his brain suddenly relax and his body go numb, and in an instant, the world went dark.