More Fearsome than You Know

After midnight, morning of Monday, October 29, 2001

Shame kept his purple bandana pulled up around the bottom half of his face. Although he was more or less an invited guest to the old brownstone, ever since the mass escape of arch-criminals, he felt more comfortable that way out in public.

The door was unlocked for his benefit. The Criminal Cowboy entered the house he had been in once before. A modest dwelling in a middle-class neighborhood, the building was dark, with a musty smell of old books. In this part of the home, decorations were few.

“Doctor!” he called. Shame was not a brave man. Even with his gun drawn, he hated creeping around the halls.

Shame bumped his leg against a table in the hall. “Dang gum it!” he bellowed. Now he was angry. “If ‘ya don’t show yerself, it’s gonna be one of my platinum bullets that finds ‘ya!”

An ethereal voice called from a room up ahead. “Why did you want to see me?”

Shame walked slowly in that direction, gun at the ready. “I wanted to parlay with ‘ya about that Fear Gas ‘ya sold to me!”

A creepy chuckle emanated from down the hall. “After all this time, that’s what’s on your mind?”

“Well,” Shame began, a few feet from a dimly lit doorway, “it didn’t work like ‘ya claimed it would. After a while, Batgirl recovered on her own, without any antidote, and it was supposed to-

“Jumping Jehosafat!”

The cause of Shame’s interjection was the sight that greeted his eyes when he peeked around the corner of the doorway. The room was a study or library of some kind. The walls were lined with rows of shelves, jam-packed with books. What immediately caught the Conniving Cowpoke’s attention, though, was not the many learned treatises, but the figure leaning against the large desk facing the doorway.

The form stood about five feet, nine inches tall, not counting the wide-rimmed, brown, straw hat on its head. The face was completely obscured by what appeared to be some sort of brown gunny sack. No skin at all could be seen anywhere on the person, but straw stuck out of the poor-looking clothes at all sorts of odd angles.

Shame stood facing the figure. “Getting ready for Halloween?” he managed to ask.

“Quite,” the distorted voice replied. “You may call me - - - The Scarecrow.”

“Right,” drawled Shame.

The Scarecrow continued, “Now, you were saying something about that early version of my Fear Gas I sold to you.”

Shame didn’t know why, but he was feeling very much ill-at-ease. Why should he, though? After all, he was the one with the gun. “Yeah. Like I said, it didn’t work like ‘ya promised!”

“Oh?” The Scarecrow replied, dubiously. “Did you introduce it into a small enclosed space? Or did you spray it around outside or in a large room, like I warned you not to do?”

“Well - - -” Shame admitted.

“I thought so,” answered The Scarecrow. “If you didn’t follow the directions, I can’t be held responsible for the fact that the product didn’t live up to your expectations.”

“Listen ‘ya!” Shame thundered, waving his gun menacingly, “Scarecrow or Doctor or Professer or whatever the heck ‘ya decide to call yerself, I wants my money back!”

“Oh, really?” The Scarecrow calmly replied. “May I suggest, instead, that perhaps you might be interested in my new, improved Fear Gas?”

“What do you mean?” Shame said, nervously.

“It’s colorless, odorless and ten times more effective,” The Scarecrow said confidently. The eyeless face then seemed to look around. “Not only that, but it permeates the air in this room!”

“Wh-What!?” Shame stammered. “Wh-Why ‘y-ya- - -” Shame attempted to pull the trigger of his gun, but found he was terrified at the thought of the loud noise it would make. His six-shooter fell from his hand, dropping uselessly to the floor.

Waves of sheer terror washed over the cowardly cowboy. He followed his weapon to the floor. In seconds, he was reduced to a fetal position, his face covered by his hands.

“Girls!” called The Scarecrow.

Two young women wearing gas masks entered the room through the doorway. The fabric of their costumes covered the top of their shoulders, most of their breasts and their sides, but the middle of their torsos were exposed, displaying their cleavage, abs and navels.

Red hair stuck out from behind the mask of one, framed by a tall flaring collar. The color of her costume matched her hair, while her skin was deeply tanned, almost bronze. Horizontal bars held the red head’s costume closed in the front.

The other had silver, almost metallic looking locks, which also matched the hue of the material of her costume. This woman’s skin was quite pale. Three pairs of straps cris-crossed from below her breasts to above her waist to keep her costume together.

The girls picked up the quivering mass of flesh that had been the arch-criminal Shame under his opposite armpits and dragged him out of the room.

Shortly after dawn, there was a rare meeting of all five of Gotham City’s costumed crime fighters in the Police Commissioner’s office. Batman, Robin, Batgirl, Batwoman and Flamebird all listened attentively as James Gordon briefed them on the events of the past forty-eight hours.

“The first crime by this scarecrow was Saturday afternoon at a farmers’ market at the edge of town. As he and his accomplices only got away with about a thousand dollars, I didn’t bother to call any of you at that time. Besides the perpetrators’ costumes, however, the other unusual aspect was the strong feelings of dread and apprehension the victims reported, much more pronounced than in a typical robbery.”

Commissioner Gordon then activated his office video monitor. “Then, yesterday afternoon, watch what happened at a Cracked Barrel Restaurant near the western interstate.”

The heroes watched with rapt attention as the videotape showed a cashier with several customers queued to pay their bills. Suddenly the figure of The Scarecrow burst into the room. On each shoulder was a large crow.

As the employee and the patrons looked on in amazement, the crows left their perches and flew across the room. Then there was a bright flash. When the picture cleared, the birds were gone and in their place stood The Scarecrow’s two colorfully-clad, gas mask-wearing young cohorts!

“Holy Prestidigitation!” exclaimed Robin.

“Why - - - that’s impossible!” blurted Flamebird.

“I’ve never believed in the supernatural,” Batgirl said, “but after our run-in with Passion and Ecstasy, I’ve decided to be a little more open-minded!”

On the film the two henchgirls appeared to spray a colorless gas from wands in their hands connected to tanks on their backs, looking something like berserk exterminators. In seconds, the entire restaurant was in panic. The woman behind the cash register and the customers in line cowered in fear, as the trio of bandits helped themselves to the money.

“And finally,” Commissioner Gordon continued, “a delivery was made to the front steps of Police Headquarters about two hours ago.” Gordon pushed a button on his intercom. “Chief O’Hara, bring him in.”

Seconds later Chief O’Hara appeared in the double doorway, half-leading, half-dragging the terror-stricken form of Shame into the office.

The Criminal Cowboy peeked over his forearm at the five costumed heroes. Instantly he fell flat on the floor.

“He’s been like that ever since we found him,” Chief O’Hara reported. “Totally incoherent.”

“Is this Shame?” Batwoman asked.

“Yes,” answered Batgirl, “and from the looks of him, I’d say he got a dose of his own Fear Gas.” Batgirl remembered how her exposure to the substance by Calamity Jan and Frontier Fanny had turned her - and the Dynamic Duo - into sniveling cowards.

“Chief O’Hara,” Commissioner Gordon ordered, “have a couple of officers take Shame to Mount Ararat Hospital.”

Chief O’Hara activated the intercom system. In less than a minute, two uniformed policemen carried Shame from the office.

As he watched his formerly formidable adversary being led away, Batman remarked, “I’d always wondered where he had come up with that weapon. I was sure its creation was beyond his capability or that of anyone in his gang.”

“And now it looks like we know,” observed Robin. “It was invented by someone who’s now gone into business for himself - someone who dresses up like a scarecrow.”

“Exactly, Boy Wonder,” agreed Commissioner Gordon, “and someone who has no second thoughts about exposing innocent citizens to his toxic creation. It took hours before those poor people at the restaurant returned to anything close to normal.”

Batman reached into his utility belt and pulled out some pills. “Batgirl, Batwoman, here is some of my Batantidote powder compressed into pill form. If you come up against these criminals, take one as soon as possible. Don’t, however, take any in advance. Without the counter-balance of the Fear Gas, they might cause you to act recklessly.”

“What about my police force?” Chief O’Hara asked.

“Chief, Commissioner, I suggest you contact one of us when this scarecrow shows up again - and I strongly suspect he will,” Batman recommended. “He’s had some four years to improve his concoction. I don’t think we should take the chance of him unleashing it upon the general population.”

“Of course, Batman,” Commissioner Gordon agreed. “Whatever you say, but, what do we do for now?”

Batman looked at Batgirl. “Keep Batgirl posted via her radio and her e-mail.” Then he shifted his attention to Batwoman and Flamebird. “When this scarecrow strikes, call Batwoman on her cell phone. As always, you can reach Robin and me on the Hot Line.

“But for the moment,” Batman went on, “may I borrow that security camera tape?”

“Certainly, Batman,” Gordon responded. “Though, may I ask why?”

“I want to show it to an old ‘friend.’”

Later that morning, Batman entered the largest of the Wayne Foundation’s Children’s Hospitals. Although he had visited many times before as Bruce Wayne, this was his first appearance there as the Caped Crusader.

He found himself to be strangely nervous as he paused before knocking on a door which bore the sign, “Resident Lady Magician.”

“Come in!” a voice called from within.

Batman opened the door. The walls of the room were lined with shelves of books, videos, a TV, a VCR and boxes of various shapes and sizes. Sitting behind a cluttered desk was an attractive, red-haired woman in her late forties.

“Batman!” She shot out of her chair and raced towards the Dark Knight.

“Hello, Zelda.”

The escape artist known as Zelda the Great started to reach out to hug Batman, then thought better of it. She looked up into his eyes and said, with a smile, “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come and see me.”

Bruce Wayne had met with Zelda on numerous occasions since her release from prison. Although she had always been very nice to him, she never looked at Wayne like she was now gazing at his alter ego.

“I need your opinion on something.”

“Oh, I might have known,” Zelda replied, half turning away while trying not to sound too disappointed. “Don’t tell me Eivol is giving you trouble again!”

“No. Ekdal is still safely in prison.”

Zelda whirled on Batman, a look of shock in her eyes. “My crazy sister isn’t back in this country, is she?”

When Batman first faced Olga, Queen of the Bessarovian Cossacks, he had assumed that Egghead had once again used the Psyche Eggchange Machine. Only later did he learn that Olga was Zelda’s twin sister. Olga was regarded as the Cossacks’ queen by virtue of being born first, even though it was only by a matter of seconds.

When Zelda first began working as an escape artists, many of her illusions were accomplished with the help of her identical twin. The two eventually drifted apart, however, with Olga ending up as a dishwasher at a run-down Bessarovian restaurant until being found by Egghead.

“No, as far as I know, Olga is still in Bessarovia. The authorities won’t let her back into the United States.”

“Well, then,” Zelda said, play-acting at sounding petulant, “what can I do for you?”

“Take a look at this.” Batman put the videocassette tape of the restaurant robbery in the VCR and turned it and the TV on. Zelda watched the proceedings with cool, professional interest.

“Hmmmm. Impressive.” Zelda took the remote control off of the shelf and rewound the tape. She played it several times, pausing the playback at several points and running it in slow motion as well.

Finally Batman asked, “Can you tell how it was done?”

Zelda looked at Batman with a bemused smile. “Don’t tell me the ever-logical Batman is willing to consider the possibility of real magic?”

The magician looked back at the screen. “I assume you’re sure the tape hasn’t been tampered with?”

“That’s right.”

Zelda seemed to reach a decision. “I know how I would have done it, but it would have required getting into that room in advance. Even so, this scarecrow or these girls must be quite talented. What do you know about them?”

“Very little, actually,” Batman admitted as he removed the tape. How it was done was irrelevant to him. He just wanted to be certain he wasn’t going to be facing a foe with super-powers. Batman permitted himself to smile at Zelda. “But I do appreciate you eliminating the impossible. Thank you, very much.”

“Anytime, Batman.” Zelda grabbed Batman gently by the arm as he turned to leave. “Why don’t you drop by for one of my shows sometime? I’m sure - - - the children would enjoy it greatly.”

Batman smiled at Zelda again. It was so gratifying to find a former criminal who had truly reformed. “I might just do that.”

Dick Grayson was glad he was able to make it on time to his Psychology 201 class. Ever since he had enrolled at Gotham State University, he had heard that Professor Jonathan Crane’s first lecture on the topic of fear was not to be missed.

Dick had found Professor Crane to be extremely knowledgeable, if a bit unorthodox. Five feet, nine inches tall, thin with long arms and legs and a narrow face a little out of proportion with the rest of his body, the bespectacled Doctor of Psychology reminded his students of a man named Crane from literature - Ichabod Crane from Washington Irving’s Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

The classroom was packed this morning. Although none of his close friends were taking the course, Dick knew two of his classmates: Jenny Akasofu and Delisha Davis.

Professor Crane entered the room. The students immediately quieted down. This was what they had been waiting for all semester.

The teacher held the lapels of his brown three piece suit as he began. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for us to study the psychology of fear. Fear - - - that awful dread which grips a person when thoughts of terror run through the mind.”

Professor Crane looked over his class. “I believe we have three students with us today who have intimate first-hand knowledge of this topic.”

Crane stared right at Dick, a look that seemed to penetrate down to the college sophomore’s very soul. “Mr. Grayson. I believe you have been held hostage by some of Gotham City’s more colorful criminals on more than one occasion, am I correct?”

It was silly, but somehow Dick felt intimidated by his professor. “Yes, sir,” he managed to utter, sounding much more timid than usual.

“Tell us, Mr. Grayson, how did it feel to be held prisoner by a costumed madman, a person so unbalanced he might have killed you without a second thought?”

Dick knew he had to tread carefully. His pride demanded one sort of answer, but he had to be careful not to say anything to jeopardize his secret identity. “Well, certainly I was scared, but I tried to keep my wits about me. I didn’t say or do anything to antagonize my captors. I also had faith I’d be rescued, either by the Gotham City police, Batman and Robin, or Batgirl.” There. He hoped he’d hit the right tone.

“Huh!” the academician snorted. He turned to face the two girl friends sitting next to each other. “And what about you Ms. Akasofu? Or you, Ms. Davis? How did you feel when you were prisoners of - what does that fellow call himself? - ah, yes: The Penguin?”

“I didn’t get really scared until Penguin started to cut me with the razor-sharp tip of his umbrella,” Delisha explained.

“I was more worried about my grandfather and Delisha that I was afraid,” said Jenny, defiantly.

“Oh, really?” questioned the educator. “Interesting.” Crane opened a drawer of his desk and reached into it. “Let me demonstrate something.”

That slightly built man pulled out a handgun! A general hubbub erupted in the room. “Quiet!” Crane ordered, brandishing the weapon. “Notice this gun. Some of you are scared just because I have it. On the other hand, some of you doubt it is real, or comfort yourself with the knowledge that we are in a college classroom.

“Now, should I point it at you, you would be afraid.” Crane leveled the pistol so it was pointing directly at Dick’s head!

‘Steady, Dick,’ Grayson told himself. ‘Professor Crane is a respected scholar. This has to just be some sort of classroom demonstration.’

“But - - -” Professor Crane went on, “you would be more afraid if I did this!” Crane whirled and pointed the gun at a vase with roses on a nearby table.

BLAM!

Crash!

The vase shattered into pieces. A couple of the students screamed. One near the door burst from the room.

Crane once again pointed the gun at Dick Grayson. “Now you see what the gun can do. It can destroy. Before - - - you could only guess what it could do. Now that you have seen its destructive power - - - you are even more afraid.”

Dick stared at Crane, not blinking. Crane smiled a thin smile.

Then he put the gun back in the drawer. “Simple psychology, ladies and gentlemen.”

That afternoon, Batman was cruising on patrol by himself when the Hot Line beeped.

“This is Batman.”

“Thank heavens, Batman!” It was Commissioner Gordon. “A report just came in from a patrolman on foot that a scarecrow with two crows on his shoulder has walked into Spiffany’s Jewelry Store.”

“I’m just a few blocks from there, Commissioner! Keep your men away. I’ll be right there.”

Batman executed an Emergency Bat-Turn, then roared up fashionable Fifteenth Avenue. Less than two minutes later, the Caped Crusader, after swallowing one of his Batantidote pills, bounded into the scene of the crime.

Behind the rectangular glass counters, sales clerks were huddled together, apparently already victims of some version of Fear Gas. On the opposite outer aisles, the gas-masked figures of the two henchgirls were smashing display cases and helping themselves to handfuls of fine jewels. Their master was at the far end of the room from the entrance, calming perusing one of the central cabinets.

“Hold it right there, you fiends!” Batman announced.

The frightener looked up at the source of the intrusion. The fugitive from a vegetable garden cackled, “Welcome, Batman! I wondered which of Gotham City’s masked vigilantes would be the first to catch up with us. I’m glad to see we get to start right off with the big man himself!”

Batman removed a pair of Bat-cuffs from his utility belt and advanced on the criminals’ leader. As he walked forward, the Caped Crusader kept a wary eye on the two young women. Although fighting girls was contrary to his upbringing, his experiences with Batgirl, Batwoman and Flamebird, not to mention with various villainesses and henchwomen, had forced him to re-evaluate his position and accept the necessity of sometimes engaging in hand-to-hand combat with females.

“Tell your associates to give themselves up, whoever you are,” Batman ordered.

“Oh, let me introduce myself. I am called The Scarecrow.” The Scarecrow indulged in a slight bow. “I surmise that you have self-medicated with some sort of counter-agent to my Fear Gas.”

Batman stopped short. This Scarecrow was proving to be a wily opponent.

“In which case,” Scarecrow continued, “let’s have you try this on for size!”

The Scarecrow sat what looked like a top down on the glass counter-top. Then, with a flick of a brown-gloved wrist, it was sent spinning.

A low wail emitted from the device, sounding like nothing so much as an air-raid siren. The sound cut Batman to his very core. Then, suddenly-

“What!?!? I’m falling! Losing my balance - - - going to topple over - - - fall into a bottomless pit!” Batman grabbed on to the nearest display case, hanging on for dear life.

“Fear of falling, Batman!” The Scarecrow announced, “an innate fear of mankind. The sound has not only effected your inner ear, but triggered a primal reaction as well. Despite what your intellect tells you, you just know you will fall to your death if you let go. Phobos! Deimos!”

The colorful figures of the two henchwomen approached Batman from opposite sides. They then raised their heavy loot sacks and brought them crashing down upon the back of Batman’s skull. Their target dropped to the floor, unconscious.

A short time later . . .

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Commissioner Gordon removed the glass dome over the Hot Line and picked up the phone. “Yes, Batman?”

“Sorry, Commissioner, Batman can’t come to the phone right now. This is The Scarecrow.”

“Why, you-”

“Temper, temper, Commissioner,” admonished The Scarecrow. “I just wanted to let you know that The Batman is now my prisoner. You can tell his partner that he can pick up the Batmobile in front of Spiffany’s Jewelry Store.”

“So help me,” blustered the Commissioner, “if you harm one hair on Batman’s head, I’ll-”

The Scarecrow cut off Gordon’s threat. “Oh, by the way, you can also tell Robin that he’s welcome to try and stop me tomorrow afternoon - if he has the courage - and that he can bring along as many of his lady friends as he likes!”

Afternoon of Tuesday, October 30, 2001

Driving the Redbird, a grim-faced Robin picked Batgirl up in front of Police Headquarters. After receiving news of Batman’s abduction from Commissioner Gordon, they had made arrangements to patrol together.

“Any news?” Batgirl asked as she buckled her seat belt.

“No,” Robin said simply. On many occasions, Batman had rescued him or Batgirl. As time passed, however, it became more and more likely that this would be one of those rare times where they would have to come to the Caped Crusader’s aid.

Robin’s concern for his crime fighting partner was obvious. Batgirl tried to start a conversation. She hoped if she could get the young man to focus on the task at hand, he wouldn’t be distracted by worry. “I think our decision to hold Batwoman and Flamebird in reserve was wise.” She, her father and Robin had jointly agreed on that course of action.

Robin said nothing, his eyes intently studying the streets of Gotham, as well as paying attention to the vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Static and routine messages from a police scanner was all that punctuated the silence.

“All of The Scarecrow’s crimes have been in the afternoon,” Batgirl observed. “I wonder if that’s significant?”

Robin turned the proposition over in his mind. He was about to finally say something, when he suddenly turned up the police scanner.

“. . . Repeating, a desk clerk at the Eve’s Marque Hotel has just reported The Scarecrow has entered their lobby!”

Robin immediately stepped on the accelerator and headed for the luxury hotel. “Batgirl, respond and tell them we’re on our way!”

Seven minutes later, the Redbird roared into the baggage unloading lane of the hotel. Guests and hotel staff were streaming out of the doors. After they both swallowed their Batantidote pills, Batgirl led the way as the Dynamite Duo burst into the lobby.

At first, their quarry was nowhere to be seen. The lobby was deserted and deathly quiet. Then, all of sudden, they heard the fluttering of wings from a room behind the registration desk.

Batgirl and Robin stealthily made their way to the front desk. They vaulted over it, landing without a sound. Silently they crept to the doorway and looked inside.

The room ran to the heroes left. Cash was strewn on top of a table in the center of the office. In the wall to their far left was a wide-open, walk-in safe. The Scarecrow’s back was to them as the criminal was blowing the locked safe deposit boxes one at a time with squibs that looked like straws.

“Caw!”

One of the crows seemed to notice Batgirl’s and Robin’s appearance. After screeching a warning, it and its “partner” flew toward the colorfully clad crime fighters.

Robin and Batgirl half expected the birds to turn into the two women they had seen on the videotape. Instead, however, the ravens attacked!

Robin was scratched across his legs and arms, while Batgirl suffered only a slight abrasion on her face. Even that, however, was enough to prove effective. Despite the Batantidote, uncontrollable terror began to engulf the hero’s and heroine’s minds.

“Ah, Robin! So, you’ve brought just one of your playmates with you? Just as well. Oh, perhaps you’re both wondering why your antidotes aren’t working?” It was as if The Scarecrow was giving a classroom lecture. “You’ll be interested to know I’ve had a chance to analyze the formula in Batman’s bloodstream and devise counter-measures. In addition, I’ve also laced the chemical coating my crows’ claws with a strong sedative. The combined effect will probably cause both of you to lose consciousness just about- - -”

Neither Robin nor Batgirl heard the word, “now.”

Night of Wednesday, October 31, 2001

Halloween

The anxiety and trepidation this All Hallow’s Eve in Gotham City was not generated by the traditional holiday merrymakers. The entire city was on edge with the knowledge that three of its masked heroes had been captured by a fiend whose trademark was fear.

The news media had gotten their hands on the security videotape from the Eve’s Marque. The local TV news broadcasts played the scenes of Batgirl’s and Robin’s abduction by The Scarecrow over and over again, as well as coverage of the Police Department’s impounding of the Redbird. The populace, already jittery with the knowledge that Batman had been taken prisoner by this new and unknown super-criminal, was now on the verge of outright panic.

Tennis sensation Betty Kane, a senior at Woodrow Roosevelt High School, arrived home after practice to her Aunt Kathy’s mansion. She was afraid Batwoman had gone out alone to face The Scarecrow without calling her at school, since the criminal had struck every afternoon the past four days.

Betty was relieved, however, to find that Batwoman’s costume and both Bat-Gyros were still in the Bat Cavern. That meant, unless she had taken the Harley Bat Cycle from the auxiliary Cavern under Networld, Kathy Kane was most likely still at her office. A quick phone call to her personal secretary, Jeffrey, confirmed that to be the case.

The mood was serious when the young executive got home from work. Kathy had never been comfortable with live-in help, but once she and her niece had undertaken the guises of Batwoman and Flamebird, domestic servants were out of the question. Together, the two beautiful young athletes prepared a nutritious, high-carbohydrate meal.

“What was the mood like at school today?” Kathy asked.

“Very grim. Robin and Batgirl are quite popular. The thought of them both - not to mention Batman - being defeated by this Scarecrow has the whole student body upset.”

“That’s understandable. Rarely have any of them been trapped in such a public way and for Batman to still be missing . . .”

“Aunt Kathy - - - do you think they’re still alive?”

“I have to believe that they are.” Kathy Kane stared right into her niece’s eyes. “In any event, though, this will be the most important - and dangerous - mission Batwoman and Flamebird have ever faced.”

Just then, the Batwoman cellphone gave out its distinctive twill.

“Yes, Commissioner?”

“Batwoman! I’m so glad you’re there!” The relief in Jim Gordon’s voice was palpable. “It may be nothing, but trick-or-treaters have reported that a scarecrow has been erected in the northwest corner of Gotham Central Park! It may be nothing but an obscene Halloween prank, but if it’s not . . .”

“We’ll check it out, Commissioner.” Kathy Kane paused a beat. “Any news about Batman, Robin or Batgirl?”

“No, Batwoman.” There was silence for a moment. “Batwoman, please be careful. If there’s anything we can do . . .”

“We’ll be sure to let you know, sir. Please try not to worry. Goodbye.”

Betty looked at her father’s sister expectantly. “This may be it. A scarecrow has been put up in Gotham Central Park.”

“Let’s go!” Betty cried eagerly.

Less than thirty minutes later, two Bat-Gyros landed in the outfield of a softball diamond in Gotham Central Park. Stationed like a sessile centerfielder was a stuffed bird-scaring sentinel.

Batwoman and Flamebird cautiously approached. Examining it closely, Flamebird declared, “It’s just an ordinary scarecrow. But what’s it doing here?”

“Someone’s idea of a sick joke?” Batwoman speculated. “Or a calling card from Gotham’s newest arch-criminal?”

“Uhhh . . . B-Batwoman, d-do you feel . . . kinda funny?”

“Y-yes . . .” Batwoman shuddered. “Quick, F-Flamebird! T-take the B-Batantidote!”

Both women did so, not knowing the pills would prove useless. Terror came with the suddenness of a slashing blow, with no way to fight back or flee. Stricken, they fell like wheat before a scythe, slumping to the ground, unconscious.

Out from under a manhole cover down the leftfield foul line emerged The Scarecrow’s two assistants. This time, they were not yet wearing their gas masks, which hung at their right hips.

“Two more subjects for the doctor’s experiments,” the red-garbed woman remarked. “It was sure smart to soak that scarecrow in the liquid form of the Fear Gas.”

The pale woman with silvery hair reaching below her waist had wing-like white earrings. Two pieces of leather crossed her face in an X with the intersection on the bridge of her nose. She put her wrists on her hips as she gazed at the fallen heroines, the brightest stars visible in the clear city sky above.

“Beautiful,” she said with a sigh.

“What?” her compatriot asked.

“Flamebird,” the aluminum crow answered. “She’s so young and unspoiled, Phobos, yet so very beautiful.”

“Huh,” snorted Phobos, the woman with hair the color of rusty iron, “You just want to carry her because she’s lighter than Batwoman! We’re going to have a heck of a time getting them down the sewer and into the tunnels! Come on!”

Phobos and Deimos slipped on their gas masks. Despite Phobos’s concerns, the well-toned, bizarrely-dressed henchwomen were able to transport the Distaff Duo back down the manhole. Soon they made their way through the sewer system and into the myriad tunnels that branched underneath Gotham State University.

Before the purchase of the land by the college, the ground was owned by the Arkham Insane Asylum. Rather than have the general public exposed to their “patients” as they were moved from one building to another, the keepers built an underground system that kept most of the inmates from ever seeing the light of day.

The tunnels and underground cells had largely been forgotten - except for the one day a year when the Gotham State University band conducted tours as a fund raiser. Now, the network served as the headquarters for The Scarecrow - and as the site for unholy experiments!

Phobos deposited Batwoman in one cell, while Deimos put Flamebird in an adjoining one. The Scarecrow walked up to join them in the dark, dank corridor.

“Do you want us to put straightjackets on them, Scarecrow?” Phobos asked.

“Yes, for now,” ordered their boss, “but first, let me inject them with my Fear Serum.” The Scarecrow pulled out a hypodermic needle and entered Batwoman’s cell. Scarecrow rolled down Batwoman’s left, elbow-length black glove and made the injection.

“How much of a dose did you give her?” Phobos inquired.

“A double,” Scarecrow answered, while dropping the used needle in a bio-hazard bag.

“I don’t get it. Why don’t you give them all the same amount?”

“Because, my dear Deimos, the dosage is based on their body weight and my estimation of their capacity for fear. I don’t want to scare them to death.”

“Why not?” Deimos pouted.

The Scarecrow took a deep breath. “Because: One - The penalty for murder is quite well-defined, but the penalty for driving someone insane is much less so; and Two - This is much more interesting, educational . . . and entertaining.”

The trio walked out of Batwoman’s cell and over to Flamebird. The Scarecrow pulled out another hypo, tapped the needle, bent over the teenager and stuck her bare right arm.

“How much for her?” Phobos asked.

“This girl gets the single or base dose,” Scarecrow explained. “It should be more than sufficient to manifest her greatest fear in her young mind.

“Now, just to be safe, put the straightjackets on them. We can take them off soon.”

As Phobos and Deimos scampered away to carry out their leader’s directive, The Scarecrow stood over the figure of Flamebird laying on her side and sighed. “How I wish I could look into your mind and see just exactly what it is that terrifies you above all else!”

Down the hall, in another cell, Batman, in a straightjacket, was further bound in a straight-back chair. Coils of rope wrapped around his forehead, his neck, his torso and his legs.

Unlike Batwoman and Flamebird, Batman was fully awake. The Caped Crusader had been given, on three separate occasions, five times the amount of the fear formula injected into Flamebird. He stared straight ahead, though, unseeing, his eyes wide-open in fright.

#####

Young Bruce Wayne looked on, for the umpteenth time, as his parents were shot down in cold blood. Then, the boy watched as Robin was shot down by the same gunman who murdered his father and mother. Next, Batgirl succumbed to the mugger. Again, as always, Bruce looked on . . . helplessly . . . ineffectively . . . powerlessly. Then Batwoman, Flamebird, Commissioner Gordon, Chief O’Hara, Alfred, Aunt Harriet . . .

#####

The carnage continued in Batman’s mind’s eye. His greatest fear played over and over and over, endlessly repeating. Batman relived the tragedy of his life, his worst nightmare. His much vaunted willpower was shredded by the failure that inspired him to become Batman being visited upon everyone he knew and loved.

A puddle of drool formed in the folds of Batman’s cape underneath his chin.

Elsewhere in the labyrinth, Robin was in a hell of his own. Also bound in a straightjacket, he was huddled in a corner of his cell. Scarecrow had “treated” him with a couple of quadruple strength shots.

#####

Robin was tied, spread-eagled to an ornate bed. Try as he might, he was unable to pull either his wrists or his wing-tipped booted feet free.

A door opened. An androgynous blonde figure walked into the bedroom.

“Chris Thomson!” Robin yelled.

“Hello, Boy Wonder,” Chris said in a seductive, husky voice. The person who once served as King Tut’s Chief Torturer was wearing an Egyptian robe. Chris plopped down on the bed next to Robin, Thomson’s head mere inches from Robin’s. Chris stroked Robin’s hair with one hand.

“Aren’t you getting a little old, though, to be called ‘Boy Wonder?’” Chris asked. “Even Teen Wonder is almost out of date. You’re nearly twenty, aren’t you . . . Dick?”

Robin had tried to put out of his mind that Chris Thomson was the one villainess . . . or villain . . . who had discovered his secret identity. Robin gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at his youthful captor.

Chris grabbed Robin by the chin and turned the hero’s face toward him/her. Thomson then planted a deep passionate kiss on Robin’s lips.

Immediately afterward, Robin made a great show of spitting sounds, but deep down he had to admit he liked it.

Chris sat up, sitting on the bed so that she/he faced the bound college sophomore. “I know, Dick, you’ve been dying to find something out ever since we first met. Now, it’s time.”

Slowly, mysteriously, Chris played with the top of the robe. Finally, Thomson opened it up to reveal . . .

“NO!”

Chris Thomson’s chest was smooth and sleek. As buff as Robin’s, it was a perfect example of a young male physique.

‘I’ve been kissed by a guy! Twice!!’ Robin thought. ‘Worst of all - I enjoyed it!’

Thomson closed his robe and stood up. “You know, Robin, Batman seems to have shown a preference lately for female sidekicks. First there was Batgirl. Then there was Batwoman and Flamebird.”

Chris leaned over, again getting close to Robin’s face. “But don’t worry,” the teenage bi-sexual cooed, “I’ve got the answer to your problem.”

Thomson walked over to a chest and opened it. He reached in and took out what looked like long-handled tree limb cutters, but with a nasty-looking attachment at the business end.

Chris walked slowly towards the foot of the bed, carrying the implement, a gentle smile on his face. “These were used to create eunuchs to serve in the ancient Egyptian temples. Those short pants will soon look even better on you . . . and then you can be mine forever, Robin.”

Robin screamed in abject horror at the imminent prospect of having his manhood snipped away . . .

#####

Batwoman awoke with a start. Her arms were tightly gripped around her body by the straightjacket, but she was oblivious to that fact. Batwoman stood up, scurried to the wall opposite the cell door and then sat down, her knees curled up against her body.

Batwoman’s eyes didn’t reflect fear as much as sadness, defeat and utter despair . . .

#####

It all went wrong when Flamebird broke her right arm fighting The Joker. The arm was so badly damaged, that even after it healed, Betty was never able to serve as hard again. Her professional tennis-playing career was over before it had begun.

Things were never the same after that between Kathy and her niece. Betty declared that Flamebird had retired. Betty even quit the high school tennis team and began running around with a different crowd. The former star athlete’s grades began to suffer.

When Kathy confronted her ward, demanding to know what Betty planned to do with the rest of her life, Betty just smiled.

On Betty’s 18th birthday, Kathy planned a huge party. She invited all of Betty’s old friends to come and as many of her niece’s new acquaintances as she could identify.

After most of the guests had arrived, Kathy was startled when she again answered the door to her mansion. This time at the door was Betty.

‘Why didn’t she let herself in?’ Kathy wondered.

Then Kathy noticed a man in a business suit standing next to Betty. The man handed the billionaire a piece of paper. It was a summons.

Betty sued her aunt for reckless endangerment of a minor. The lawsuit revealed to the entire world that Kathy Kane was Batwoman and that Betty had been Flamebird. Betty not only asked for the income she lost because her tennis career had been ruined, but, in addition, she petitioned for punitive damages.

The court’s and the public’s sympathies were entirely with the orphaned teenage girl. “As her guardian, it was your duty to keep your ward safe,” the judge admonished Kathy. The fact that Betty had wanted to become Flamebird to avenge the murder of her parents carried no weight with the court. “You were the adult in the relationship. You should have known better.”

The court gave Betty the largest damage award in history. The ruling transferred Kathy Kane’s entire estate to her niece.

Kathy, plagued by feelings of guilt, refused to appeal the decision. She was now penniless and homeless, a pauper forced to live in abject poverty on the street.

Kathy Kane, founder of Networld, sat on the sidewalk, leaning against one of Gotham City’s skyscrapers, a tin cup in her hand. She was hungry and filthy, her once beautiful brunette hair now a matted mess. Wearing a dirty overcoat, the stench she gave off was overpowering.

Suddenly, Kathy spotted a familiar face walking past her.

“Mr. Wayne,” Kathy called out. “Could you spare some change?” she pleaded, desperation in her voice. “Anything at all?”

“Hmph!” snorted the noted philanthropist. “I am quite happy to share my good fortune with those who deserve it . . . but you!” he declared in disgust. “Anyone who would subject an innocent child to the likes of Black Widow, False Face and The Joker deserves no sympathy whatsoever. Good day!” Wayne stormed off.

Soon another familiar face approached the destitute young woman. It was Chief O’Hara.

“Okay, you, get a move on,” the chief of police ordered. “We’ll have no vagrants in downtown Gotham City.”

“Chief O’Hara! Don’t you recognize me?!” the beggar said. “It’s me, Kathy Kane. Batwoman!”

Chief O’Hara looked at the woman as if seeing her for the first time. Then a broad smile broke out across his face. “Why, sure’n it is!” Suddenly, without warning, O’Hara grabbed his nightstick and bashed Kane across the right side of the head!

Kathy looked up at O’Hara questioningly, like a puppy who had been whipped for no reason other than the sick whim of its owner. “That’s for showin’ up the police department!” Chief O’Hara explained. “It twas bad enough havin’ to put up with Batman, Robin and Batgirl! Then you popped up! Get goin’ before I give your other side the same treatment!”

#####

Batwoman stumbled along the walls of her cell, lost in her nightmare world, broken springs from the torn padding stabbing her at irregular intervals.

In the adjacent cell, Flamebird laid on her back, her legs rigid. The 17 year old stared, unblinking, at the dimly lit ceiling, but she didn’t see the roughly hewn stone.

#####

Flamebird had been captured by False Face. The master of disguise was the first villain to put the teenager into a deathtrap. Now, she was once again at his mercy.

Flamebird was bound on what appeared to be a stone altar of some kind, some four feet off the floor. Her wrists were shackled at her side, while ropes wound around her biceps. False Face had stretched each of her legs out to their maximum before snapping metal bands around her ankles. Ropes also ran across her throat and abdomen.

“What are you going to do to me, you maniac?” Flamebird demanded, putting as much defiance into her voice as she could manage.

The immobile mask of False Face leaned over in front of her gold-tinted goggles. “Well, I’m not going to kill you, little girl . . .”

Flamebird hated it when he called her that.

“. . . but you may wish that I had!” False Face cackled evilly. False Face turned away and walked to a nearby table. He picked up something that looked like the plastic handlebar of a bicycle. Then he flipped a red switch on its side.

A bright beam of red light sprung from the handle, bathing the entire chamber in its eerie glow.

“I don’t believe it!” declared Flamebird. “A light sabre?!?! This can’t be happening!”

“Ah, but it is!” answered False Face wickedly. “This is much better than a chainsaw. The heat of the blade instantly cauterizes the wound. There’ll be very little blood . . . and you can tell me how much pain.”

“Wh-what are you going to do to me?” Flamebird’s voice had gotten very small. She was no longer the arrogant superheroine. Now she was what False Face said she was: a scared little girl.

“Haven’t you guessed?” False Face replied. “I’m going to cut off your limbs - one by one!”

“NO!” screamed Flamebird. “Please.”

“I don’t think you’ll give me much more trouble once you’re just a torso and a head,” False Face explained. Then, False Face seemed to consider something. “Still, though, maybe that won’t make you suffer enough.”

“Wh-what?” Flamebird stammered. ‘What could he do to me that would be worse?’ she wondered.

“I know!” False Face shouted, as if inspired. He lowered the blade of the light sabre so it was parallel to Flamebird’s abdomen. Then he slowly moved the buzzing beam towards the red material supporting the bottom of Flamebird’s left breast . . .

“H E L P !!!!!!!”

#####

Listening to the terrified cries of Robin and Flamebird, The Scarecrow smiled.

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