Robin was fighting to hold his own against the Scarecrow's cult, but it was clear he was being dragged into something deeper than just a brawl. Scarecrow was still ahead—never too far, never truly fleeing.
He moved with an eerie calm, glancing back every so often as if measuring the distance between them, not with fear, but with amusement. It wasn't a chase for him, bit more like a game. And Robin was the mouse he wanted caught in the maze since he didn't get Batman.
Scarecrow knew full well he didn't stand a chance against the kid if he fought him head-on. Any rational man would have bolted, disappeared into the dark to save his own skin. But logic had long abandoned him.
The idea of watching Robin unravel under the effects of his toxin was too enticing. The anticipation of seeing that disciplined, sharp little mind fracture and crumble under fear—it was almost intoxicating.
Robin's sword cut through the air in clean, practiced motions.
The first henchman went down with a gash across the shoulder, another fell with a slice to the leg. He fought with his usual grace, a true testament to his brutal training and cold focus, but it wasn't enough.
They just kept coming. Every cult member lunged with erratic speed, their movements were jerky and uncoordinated, yet frighteningly persistent—like puppets yanked on invisible strings.
He tried to avoid killing blows, aiming for pressure points and muscles instead, trying to incapacitate them. But they didn't flinch, didn't even grunt when bones cracked or his blades cut deep into flesh. They just kept swinging, eyes glassy and unfocused, like rabid animals stripped of pain and reason.
Then, from behind, gunfire cracked and metal rang out. Red Hood had arrived.
"Wait right there, little demon. Don't chase him any further," Jason's voice called out through the chaos, rough and commanding as he slammed his crowbar into the ribs of one henchman, the sound of snapping bones echoing in the tunnel.
"Oh, there's two of you," Scarecrow's voice floated from the shadows, sinister and mocking. "But that doesn't matter. You won't reach me in time. These men have been chemically enhanced, dosed with drugs that target the brain's neuromatrix."
"Trying not to kill them is becoming a real pain in the ass," Robin muttered, slashing through another attacker's thigh and sidestepping a wild punch.
"Shssh, language, kid," Red Hood teased, smashing his crowbar across another man's knees and following it up with a precise strike to the elbow. The wet crunch of bones filled the air as bodies dropped, twitching and groaning.
Scarecrow kept talking, his voice almost gleeful, echoing through the damp corridor like a teacher proud of his own madness.
"It's fascinating, isn't it? The neuromatrix network handles all aspects of pain—sensory, emotional, cognitive. The human mind is a cage, and pain is its jailer."
The goons twitched on the floor, joints bending back into place with audible pops before they rose again, still swinging. Their faces were slack, their eyes distant, they appeared as puppets reanimated by chemistry and cruelty.
"I got the idea while I was at Arkham," Scarecrow continued, his tone dripping with pride. "Met an old acquaintance of mine. I despise him, but I admire his art. Joker."
The name struck Jason. For the first time that night, his attention snapped away from the fight and Robin. His grip on the crowbar tightened until the metal creaked, and even through the helmet, the shift in his body language screamed danger.
Scarecrow went on, delighted by his own voice. "Imagine it—a serum that silences the body's natural limits, shuts off fear, pain, doubt and hesitation. It'd turn a man into a weapon that never stops moving until he drops dead."
"For someone who's supposedly making an escape, you sure talk a lot," Red Hood cut in, his voice came in modulated as he ducked a punch and rammed his crowbar into a man's throat, then extended his pistol as he shot another.
"That's because this is a live experiment,"
Scarecrow replied, laughter bubbling up like static.
"You think you found me by chance? Oh no, I wanted this. I was waiting. This was supposed to be for Batman. I wanted to see how his precious no-kill rule would fare against my creations. What a pity he didn't show up tonight... but you two will do just fine."
The realization hit Robin instantly. His eyes widened behind the mask—he'd walked right into a setup meant for his father.
Scarecrow gave a mocking wave with his syringe-tipped glove, the glint of metal catching the flickering red lights. "You've both been quite helpful. I've gathered enough data. Until next time." Then, with a theatrical bow, he turned and began to retreat down the corridor, his laughter echoing like the hiss of escaping gas.
"Don't chase him!" Jason barked as he crushed another henchman's wrist with a single strike. He already knew how this story went—he had been that reckless, headstrong kid once. And he knew Damian wouldn't listen.
Robin, fueled by pride, impatience, and the need to prove his competence, struck several of the attackers in their paralytic nerves. Their bodies seized up mid-motion, buying him just enough time to dash after Scarecrow.
Jason cursed under his breath, surrounded by still-advancing men who refused to die or stay down. His patience burned away. He didn't have the luxury to restrain himself and aim for their paralytic nerves like Damian. Not his style. He drew his sword, slashing through limbs—arms, legs, anything that could move. Blood sprayed across the concrete, thick and dark under the dim red lights.
Meanwhile, up ahead, Scarecrow neared the end of the corridor where a ladder of corroded metal bars stretched upward toward the surface. He slowed a bit, moving with deliberate slowness, as if daring Robin to catch up.
The kid was fast, his steps light and agile, the tunnel echoing with the rhythm of his pursuit. His eyes stayed locked on Scarecrow's back—too locked. His focus narrowed so tightly that he didn't see what he was running into.
His boot caught a thin wire across the floor—so faint it blended perfectly into the darkness. It snapped taut.
Robin froze instantly, instinct taking over. He crouched low, scanning the space around him, eyes darting from floor to wall, searching for what kind of trap he had just triggered. In that second, the air in the tunnel suddenly felt heavier, tense and waiting for what came next. He could feel the danger pressing down, seconds away from springing.
Somewhere up ahead, Scarecrow's laughter echoed again—soft, distant, and cruel.
Darts came at him fast, hissing through the air from multiple directions. The first few, Robin managed to deflect with his blade, but there were too many. His movements, which were composed and calculated at first, faltered for a moment as realization hit him.
The pattern of the shots—it was a trap, and Scarecrow had set it perfectly. Jason's earlier warning echoed in his mind like a cold slap across the face. He wasn't going to get them all. One mistake and he'd be hit with whatever nightmare cocktail Scarecrow had laced those darts with.
"Get down!" Red Hood's voice boomed through the tunnel.
Before Robin could even turn, Jason slammed into him from behind, shoving him flat against the ground as he took position above him. His body twisted with the fluid precision of muscle memory, his crowbar and and sword deflecting a hail of darts that came from several angles.
The metallic clinks filled the corridor like angry rain. He ignored some of the ones aimed higher—his Kevlar underarmor could handle those—but the sound alone was enough to make the air feel alive with tension.
When the last of the darts clattered to the ground, Jason finally lowered his arm, his breathing harsh through the modulator. "I told you to wait," he said, his tone edged with irritation.
Scarecrow's faint laughter drifted from above as he climbed the ladder, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness overhead.
"Thanks," Robin said, already scrambling back to his feet. "I'll be more careful. I'll keep an eye out for any more traps." He didn't wait for a response—just pushed past Red Hood and sprinted toward the ladder, determined to keep up with Scarecrow.
Jason groaned under his breath. "Yeah, sure, you will." He started to move after him, but stopped mid-step when something felt… off. A subtle sting pulsed behind his thigh.
He looked down.
"Ah, fuck," he muttered, spotting the small dart lodged behind his thigh. It wasn't deep, but it didn't have to be.
He ripped it out and tossed it to the ground, watching the faint wisp of greenish residue trail off its tip.
For two years, Ra's al Ghul had fed him every vile concoction imaginable under the guise of herbal tonics and "purification teas." He had built resistance to most known toxins. But Scarecrow's poisons weren't like ordinary venoms—they didn't rot your organs or slow your heart. They attacked something beyond flesh and muscles.
They went for your mind.
He staggered forward, trying to shake off the growing haze creeping into his vision. "It's fine," he muttered to himself, his voice distorted by the modulator. "It's not that strong. I can—"
But the floor tilted. The air thickened, heavy and suffocating. His breathing echoed loud inside the helmet, each inhale too slow, each exhale too fast. A dull ringing started in his ears, building until it drowned out everything else.
Then he heard it.
"Well, well, well… what do we have here?"
Jason froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. That voice's intonation was all too familiar, too wrong to be real.
"No…" he whispered, the word catching in his throat. Goosebumps crawled across his forearms. He turned his head slowly, almost unwillingly, and his heart dropped into his stomach. The toxin was working causing him to feel fear when normally it would be the opposite.
Standing in the tunnel behind him, bathed in flickering red light, was the one face he had wanted to see for the longest time, so he could bash his fist in.
White skin. Green hair. Red smile carved too wide to be human. The Clown Prince of Crime stood there, grinning like a ghost from his nightmares.
The Joker let out a manic cackle that bounced off the walls, high-pitched.
Jason's mind raced. No way. He's locked up. He's supposed to be in Arkham. His thoughts tripped over themselves. Did he escape? Did he— No. He forced himself to breathe. Think. Scarecrow's toxin. Hallucinations.
But the Joker kept talking, his words were warped and distant, as if underwater as his vision blurred. Jason couldn't tell if it was real sound or something his mind was fabricating.
'What if it's real?' the paranoid voice in his head whispered. 'What if Scarecrow broke him out? What if you're standing here wasting time thinking while he's laughing at you again?'
Jason's pulse thundered in his ears. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but his arm wouldn't move. His body felt heavy, locked in place, joints stiff and unresponsive.
The Joker leaned in, his shadow stretching across the wet concrete, and giggled. "It's really funny because… the universe just delivered a new joke—and guess what? You're the punchline, chum."
The world around him twisted, the tunnel melting at the edges as his vision flickered. The laughter grew louder, surrounding him from every direction until it became one long, endless echo.
His knees buckled. The crowbar slipped from his hand. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was that painted grin, wide and eternal, waiting to welcome him back to hell.
Then everything went black.
- - -
Batman arrived at the scene, tracking Robin's location through the signal on his cowl display. Alfred had already engineered an antidote from the lingering traces of toxin found at the sites of every attack that night.
He'd sent the initial doses to Commissioner Gordon, and the GCPD's forensics unit was already replicating it.
Nightwing's last report had been vague, but the message was clear—something was happening in the sewers. Judging by the erratic movement of the red dot flashing across his tracker, Robin was in pursuit of someone. Probably Scarecrow.
Batman recalculated the path and moved to intercept, heading toward the ocean outfall—a tunnel that flushed Gotham's sewage out to sea. The stench hit before he even reached the hatch.
The thick, chemical tang of waste and rot burned his nostrils, but he didn't hesitate. He lifted the metal grate and went into the darkness without a thought to the grime that would cling to his boots or the stench that would hang on his cape.
The echo of running footsteps came from up ahead. A faint yellow glow cut through the murk as he activated the night vision in his cowl—then, out of the nowhere, Scarecrow ran into him in his attempted escape.
"Scarecrow." Batman's voice echoed off the tunnel walls, low and calm as his brows furrowed beneath his cowl. The criminal froze mid-step, that familiar mix of arrogance and fear flashing in his eyes. He began backing away slowly, skeletal fingers twitching as though calculating an escape.
"Batman," Scarecrow said, spreading his arms in mock delight. "Good seeing you. It's been too long. You didn't even send me flowers after tossing me back in Arkham."
"It's over, Crane," Batman said. "Surrender." He already knew the futility of the command but said it anyway.
"Surrender?" Scarecrow tilted his head, his voice mixed with amusement.
From behind him came a smaller, sharper voice. "Batman." Robin. The boy's sudden appearance made the situation worse—he'd clearly chased Scarecrow here, ignoring orders.
Scarecrow grinned wide beneath his mask. "Well, this is awkward. Looks like you've got me cornered. Whatever shall I do?" He raised his hands slowly, feigning surrender. "Come on, kid. Cuff me up. Drag my sorry ass back to Arkham. It's been fun."
Robin moved in with caution, cuffs in hand, but Batman's voice cut through the space in that instant. "Stay back, Robin."
Scarecrow's hands twitched, and before Batman could react, four canisters dropped to the concrete floor, bursting open with a sharp hiss.
Pale yellow gas erupted instantly, filling the tunnel with a thick fog that stung the eyes and throat.
"Rebreather—now," Batman ordered, his cowl filtering the air automatically as Robin's built-in rebreather activated behind his mask.
Through the haze, movement. Scarecrow lunged—not running, but attacking. His hands gleamed with the cruel reflection of metal-tipped syringes, striking straight for Robin.
Batman moved faster. A flick of his wrist and a pair of Batarangs shot forward, slashing across Scarecrow's arm. The claws shattered, scattering across the floor with a metallic ring. Then Batman closed in, one solid punch sending Scarecrow off his feet and straight into the sewage stream with a wet crash.
Scarecrow didn't move.
Batman stayed alert, cape shifting slightly as he approached. "Running off on your own. Disobeying direct orders," he said, his voice steady but edged with disappointment. "You disappoint me, Robin. I thought you'd grown past this."
Robin's jaw tensed. "I..."
Before he could finish, Scarecrow's body twitched. Batman's eyes narrowed. The man jerked upright like a puppet being yanked by invisible strings. His pupils were gone, his eyes a pale, empty white.
"What the hell…" Robin whispered.
Scarecrow's movements were jerky, inhuman. Then, suddenly, he lunged again, faster this time—his strike flailing with strength that didn't belong to a man like him.
"He must've injected himself," Robin said as they dodged his wild swings. "A version of the same stuff he used on his men!"
"Short version," Batman ordered, weaving around a clawed swipe and landing a counter.
Robin spoke between breaths, explaining the bunker, the toxin, and the chemically enhanced men they'd fought.
The two moved in sync, dodging, striking, sidestepping. Their blows connected, but Scarecrow just kept coming, eyes wide and glassy, drool spilling from his mouth as he roared like a feral animal.
"How do you knock out someone who's already unconscious?" Robin shouted, ducking under a swipe.
"Easy." Batman reached into his belt, pulling out a small metal disk. He threw it hard. The device opened midair, deploying a reinforced net that wrapped tightly around Scarecrow's body. The madman went down thrashing, caught like an insect in a web.
"Batman, I—"
"Save it," Batman said. "We'll talk later."
He sent an electric charge through the net until Scarecrow finally went still, his pulse was weak but steady. Batman cuffed him through the mesh, then activated his comms. "Gordon, I've got Scarecrow in custody. Sending coordinates."
He switched channels. "Nightwing, Scarecrow's contained. Report."
Silence.
He tried again. "Nightwing, come in." Nothing. Just static.
"Nightwing's here?" His expression shifted with guilt that always preceded bad news.
Batman's eyes narrowed. "Talk."
"I came here, accompanied by Red Hood."
"What?" Batman's tone hardened. "You did what?"
"I'll explain later! But we need to move."
Robin darted off, and Batman, still carrying Scarecrow over his shoulder, followed quickly through the tunnels.
The air grew thicker, heavier with the stench of burnt flesh as they neared the lower levels. But thanks to their respiratory gadgets, they were saved from the stench. When they arrived, the scene before them was chaos frozen in time.
Killer Croc lay sprawled across the wet concrete, his jaw shattered and his scales blackened as though something had exploded in his mouth. Steam still rose from the wound. It was brutal—and it screamed of Red Hood's handiwork.
But there was no sign of either son.
"Where are they?" Robin asked, scanning the area.
Batman's gaze shifted to a nearby slab of concrete. Resting there, half-soaked in dirty water, were Nightwing's escrima sticks.