Disclaimer: Batman and all previously published characters and places in this story
are copyrighted by DC Comics. They're used here without permission, and are not
being used for any form of profit. If you wish to reference my original characters,
please contact me for permission first.

Child of Phobos – Chapter One

By Sunflare2k5

It was rare for any of Arkham Asylum's inmates to get mail. But today one of the
guards shoved a letter through the food slot into the Scarecrow's cell. "Dunno
who'd be stupid enough to write you, Crane?" the guard grumbled.

"Bet it's a restraining order from Elvira!" the Joker called out. Several of the
other inmates laughed in response.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Riddler retorted. "Stephen King's finally picked up the
option to write Crane's biography!" More laughter greeted that remark.

"I seriously doubt this missive has anything to do with your childish mockeries."
Scarecrow sneered. "Now – if I may be allowed the time to peruse this..?"

"Crane's lips move when he reads…" the Joker stage-whispered; a parting shot.
The Scarecrow glared down the hall; if only he could find a toxin that would finally
affect that pasty-faced fool..? Then he turned his attention back to the letter.

He checked the address first; it was in Gotham City, though he didn't recognize it.
But the name – Annabelle Leigh; it sounded familiar? With one long fingernail, he
opened the envelope and began to read…

My dearest Johnathan,
It's been years since I'd seen you… I'm not sure if you even remember me? When I
found you near my home, you were so wounded, so ill. But I took you in and cared
for you anyway. I'd wished you could stay with me, but you insisted that there were
too many people hunting you, hounding you, for you to stay in any one place. I'd tried
to respect your wishes, but now – I need your help.

Now he started to remember her? It was one of his early battles against the Bat,
and it didn't go well at all. While the sudden autumn rainstorm did allow him the
chance to escape, the near-freezing rain weakened his battered body even further.
The Scarecrow concentrated on what few memories he had – a plump, merry
woman in a riot of colorful clothing. Eyes of a blue as intense as his own, long
black wavy hair with the scent of wisteria. Her crooning songs to him as cool
hands soothed his fevered brow…

They said that you were dangerous, insane… but I saw nothing of that from you.
I saw a lost and lonely soul, one who'd been tormented for being different; the same
fate I'd faced throughout my own life. I gave you what comfort I could, and I knew
that I finally loved you. I'd hoped that you loved me too – and part of you has stayed
with me. Our daughter, Joanna.

The letter slipped out of Scarecrow's hands to the floor. A daughter?! He racked
his brains again, trying to think of anything that would have lead to his siring a
child? But try as he might, there was nothing there; the concussion and fever
had erased it. Finally, he picked up the letter again.

She's ever so clever – nine years old and already doing high school level work; I've
home-schooled her, of course. I hope that she'll be a professor someday, like you!
I've told her about us, and she wants to finally meet you. Do you know if that's even
possible? Please, let us finally be a family…

With all my love,
Annabelle Leigh

"…she loves me." Scarecrow whispered to himself. "Me?!" He'd experienced
so many things at the hands of women: his mother's cruel abandonment, his
great-grandmother's constant punishments, mockery from all his peers from
childhood onward. But desire? Love? The closest he'd come to those was from
Linda – and even now, he still wasn't sure she meant it? It was probably just
a lure so that she could make him her lab-rat; it took some time, even for him,
to shut down that mutation she'd forced onto him…

But he was determined to find out more. While Scarecrow hadn't given much
thought to having a family (the odds of his finding a willing woman were slight,
he admitted), Joanna did sound like a suitable heir? Someone to carry on after
him, bringing the precious gifts of fear to the world once he'd fallen into his
grave… yes!

Surely there was pen and paper somewhere in Arkham that he could use?

(to be continued…)