Just another victim of the Scarecrow at Arkham Asylum. This is dedicated to all the internet crazies out there.
Doctor Crane sighed as he listened to the paranoid ramblings of a mad bomber, tired of trying to make sense of others when sometimes he couldn't even make sense of himself
"And where did these visions come from?"
The inmate looked at the doctor warily, not sure of the man asking questions. Jonathan Crane waited patiently, not knowing what the bomber would say, for you could never predict these types.
"I can't tell you. You're an agent of the system."
"I'm here to help you. I have no other reason to be here," said Jonathan, though he mentally added, other than seeing if you'd be an acceptable test subject.
"You only think that. You're still working for the system, suppressing people's minds with your medicine. Don't you realize that you have a choice?
"Yes, Mr. Andrews, I do know I have a choice. This just happens to be what I chose."
In the back of Jonathan's mind, he was assessing how much worth there would be in testing his fear toxin on such a paranoid person, already somewhat fearful of the psychiatrist asking him questions.
"But do you really want to spend the rest of your life as a slave to the system? There is more out there!"
What does this man know about the system anyways? Does he know what it's like to always be the outsider in a social setting? Does he know the rejection one receives whenever you do something considered unorthodox?, thought Jonathan as he jotted down some notes on his notepad.
"You can work within the system and not be a slave to it."
"But you are. You're labeling me insane because I'm different. You're doing what you're told to do, which is to find me insane."
"I'm evaluating you. I'm trained to do so. That does not mean I'm deliberately looking for proof of insanity. I honestly do want to help," said Jonathan while he thought, No one would actually notice though if I tested the fear toxin on him. They'd just think his fearful behavior got worse. After all, no one ever takes these kinds of people seriously unless they are severely under-educated.
Timothy Andrews just went quiet while looking at Jonathan with suspicion.
"From what I can understand from the police report, you started making devices that looked like bombs and had messages saying that the end was near, but instead of containing explosives, they only contained...mice?"
"They were rats and they were supposed to be a message."
"Okay. Rats. But the report also says you later went on within the year making real bombs and setting them off in public places in the middle of the night. You were eventually found at your home with gunpowder and...a large amount of caged mice."
"Sorry," Jonathan made a note on the report that the rodents were specifically rats, not mice since this seemed so important to the bomber. "Why rats?"
"It's a metaphor for the rat race that people are constantly stuck in and I was trying to wake up people from their blind existence."
"Makes sense. What are you so afraid of?" This was what Jonathan was especially interested in.
"Everyone becoming drones, slaves to the system that they created."
"And what would be your greatest fear? Everyone losing their individual identities?"
"No, what would be the most frightening would be if no one heard my message. Because as long as people can hear my message, there would still be hope, but you're trying to silence my message," the bomber glared at the doctor.
"I'm trying to help you so maybe people will start listening to your message instead writing you off as a lunatic." What Jonathan was saying was merely just a way to get the man to trust him; he didn't really want to help the man.
"You don't want to help me. You want to trick me into thinking you will."
Jonathan just gave up on getting the man's trust because obviously he would never unless Jonathan changed his way of life drastically.
"Are you scared of me, Mr. Andrews?" asked Jonathan as he pulled out something out of his briefcase.
"I'm scared of what you represent."
"Maybe you should learn to be scared of me and not just this system that you claim that exists."
"What are you talking about?" said Timothy with confusion.
Unfortunately, that was the last coherent thing he ever said because he became one of the many victims of the Scarecrow at Arkham Asylum and spent the rest of his days in Arkham, screaming or babbling incoherently.