Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or the Scarecrow.

This is part three of my Scarecrow trilogy. Part one was "A Savage Pantsing," written for a friend of mine. That should have been the end of it. But then the sequel demons got me, and I wrote "Scarecrow's Revenge." Then I felt so bad, and my Al gave me such dirty looks, I decided to write another sequel. A happy one, in which everything get all better.

It didn't work. I felt sick the entire time I was writing this. Somebody give me a hug.

Night of the Scarecrow

Early morning, Gotham City. December. On a rooftop in a part of town that the cops don't patrol—which could mean almost anything, really—are two figures playing out a scene as fitted to Gotham as the Batsignal shining against the night sky.

One is the Scarecrow. The other is the Scarecrow's victim.

This victim is a man in his thirties, painfully thin and shivering in the cold. He is completely naked except for a strange sort of bracelet on his right wrist. He is hanging from a flagpole, tied so that his right arm is crossed over his chest. His left arm, broken, hangs useless at his side.

The Scarecrow moves toward him.

"No!" he says in a hoarse whisper. This is as loud as he can talk. Spreading across his throat is a nasty purple bruise the exact size and shape of Batman's right hand. What voice he had left after being throttled nearly to death has been destroyed by the hours and hours of screaming.

The Scarecrow touches the thing on the man's wrist, and it shoots a cloud of vapor into his face. Coughing, he thrashes wildly, desperate to make an escape that he knows is not possible. He has broken ribs. He has also been stabbed deeply in the gut. He can only hurt himself further with all this movement, and when he does, he, Jonathan Crane, former college professor, former hospital director, former Scarecrow, will die.

--

There is no more fear toxin. The Scarecrow has used it all on Dr. Crane, giving him a fresh dose every time he stopped struggling, whether because his panic was dying down, or simply because he was exhausted and in too much pain to fight.

There is no fight left in him now. He simply hangs there, weeping helplessly.

The Scarecrow walks down the stairs, humming a little tune. She has considered herself the Scarecrow for seven hours now. Six of those have been spent killing Dr. Crane.

His death may come in any number of ways. Because the cold is his most likely killer, she has draped his coat around him, unwilling to let his suffering end any sooner than it has to. If the place where she rammed her switchblade into his stomach doesn't stop bleeding soon, he could bleed out. Maybe shock will claim him. Maybe it already has.

What she really wants is for him to stay up there for a few days, slowly dehydrating.

But the human body and mind have limits to what they can withstand, and he has reached those limits. It will be a miracle if he is still alive by the end of the day.

Honestly, the Scarecrow isn't sure he'll still be there when she gets out of the shower.

At the bottom of the stairs, she meets one of her Boys. He cries out in fear when he sees her.

"Hi, Jerry," she says distractedly. The mask distorts her voice. She pulls it off and hands it to him. "See if you can get the blood out of this."

"Oh, Little Al. Where you been, boss? We was getting worried."

"I'm the Scarecrow," she says, trying out the word. She likes it. "I'm going to take a shower. There's a man on the roof. If he's still alive when I get done, have Doc patch him up; if not, bring me the thing on his wrist and toss his body in the river."

There is only one thing the Scarecrow needs that she cannot get for herself.

Jonathan can do her one last favor. He can teach her how to make his fear toxin, or he can drop dead. Either one will please her.