Athazagoraphobia - the fear of being forgotten.

Jonathan Crane was no stranger when it came to pain. Even in childhood, it had been a part of his life. Everytime Jonathan thought back to Georgia, he swore he could still remember vague sensations across his skin, as if his mind and body had clung to the phantom sensations, not wanting to let go. For example, whenever he was told to talk about his past and he opened up a little about it, he swore he could feel the fabric of his shirt brushing against his sunburnt skin. When he talked about all the bullying he endured, he swore he could still feel the ghost of horrible aches the other kids would leave him as they covered him with bruises, cuts, and scrapes. Usually, he broke the spell and came back to the present before it could get worse… but if he really lost himself to remembering all of the sensations of the past, then he would find himself flinching a bit as he felt the sensation of sharp beaks and talons snipping, pinching, and pulling at his bare skin.

Now that he was adult and far away from Georgia, his source of pain came in the form of Batman, and he had to say, they really put things in perspective. Honestly, he had been a baby beforehand. Sure, the wounds left by the birds and the kids at school had hurt, but they didn't even come close to what the Batman was able to deal out. The punches Batman dealt out didn't even feel human. They felt more akin to getting hit by a stone statue. One well-aimed punch to the torso would not only leave Jonathan sprawled gracelessly on the floor with the wind knocked out of him, but it would also likely leave several of his ribs broken. So for a while, he could say with the utmost confidence that the worst pain he had ever felt were the beatdowns from Batman.

But nothing… NOTHING Batman had ever dealt out to him even came close to being as horrible and agonizing as what Killer Croc did to him.

Jonathan could barely remember any of it. He blacked out at some point during it- whether from the intense pain or from getting slammed around on the walls of the sewer or just simple blood loss, he didn't know. All he could remember really were some sights and sensations… and he could remember them quite vividly.

He could remember the feeling of needle-sharp teeth deep into his flesh with enough force to snap the bones beneath it as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. Getting thrown like a ragdoll into one of the stone walls and falling into one of the water, only to be pulled back up into Killer Croc's crushing grip to endure another round of torture. The feeling of Killer Croc's massive hand holding him down, making escape impossible, adding to the overall despair. He remembered the overwhelming feeling and dare he say, fear, that he was going to die.

He could even remember a few smaller details. Like the dreadful growls and hisses that Killer Croc had released the whole time during the attack. How could he forget them? They were the soundtrack to his nightmares every night. He could remember how every time he had opened his mouth to scream, he would find either no sound would escape his throat or he would be pushed back into the water where a bunch of acrid sewage water promptly pour into his mouth.

The whole attack probably had lasted only about one or two minutes at the most, but it had felt like two hours to him.

The last thing he could remember for sure from that night was waking up at some point floating in the sea. Even though his head was pounding and his body was in pain and the idea of sleep was very appealing, Jonathan knew that it probably wasn't a good idea to stay in the sea like that. Even if this was a dream, he felt the need to get somewhere safe to climb onto. So, using all the willpower in his body, he weakly paddled/floated in the water, looking for land. Unfortunately, no land seemed to be in sight… just a bunch of craggy rocks. There wasn't even driftwood.

Part of him thought of passing out in the water and just letting a shark take him or drown… but then he saw it. A lone wooden box floating in the sea. It didn't look comfortable and probably would be a bit wobbly, but it was large enough for him to lay on and it wasn't like he had very many options.

So he paddled towards it, sapped the last bit of his energy to clamber on top of it, and promptly passed out on it.

When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. For a solid moment he wondered if he had simply been concussed by Batman again and all of the stuff that had went down had only been some weird hazy dream. But a nurse and doctor on standby quickly informed him that was not the case as they told him the bad news.

One thing he appreciated about being a rogue was the fact that people didn't mince words around him. People regarded him with distaste so they didn't bother trying to be nice or flowery when they described events to him. They just gave him the cold hard facts. So when he woke up, he had been informed him that he had been in a coma for two weeks, that his body had suffered intense trauma and as a result had irreparable damage. Such damage included the irreparable scarring he suffered on his face and body, the fact that he would be officially blind in one eye, the fact he would need a leg brace for the rest of his life, and that his health would steadily decline over time. They confessed to him that they only saw him realistically living for another few more years.

Admittedly, it had been a lot to take in, but he actually thought he took most of it in with stride. The scars and damage to his face didn't bother him all that much seeing as he had never cared about his appearance before so why start now? If anything, him looking so ragged and torn gave him a natural creepy factor now that the Scarecrow could definitely benefit from when working on a new test subject.

The leg brace was a tad annoying but it wasn't anything he couldn't get used too. Same with the eye. Getting used to being half blind had taken a few months and had definitely made doing research at home a little harder than usual, but hey, he could adapt to that as well. Even the constant dull ache he felt every time he moved didn't bother him after a while. He learned to work through it and unless he paid close attention, he barely noticed it anymore.

The only part that had gotten to him then and still got to him now was the fact that he was approaching death at a rapid rate. He had to admit, that part definitely scared him a bit. It wasn't death itself that scared him. He wouldn't have become a rogue if something like that was able to deter him. It was the idea though of dying before he could accomplish his ultimate goal that scared him.

When he had first decided to go out on the streets of Gotham as the Scarecrow, he had several motivations leading him on. Revenge, additional research, people who he personally thought needed to be knocked down a keg or two. He had also aimed to make a name for himself in the city of Gotham. In Georgia, he was nothing but a piece of background. A forgettable, scrawny nobody who would amount to nothing. In Gotham though, he had the opportunity for people to know his name and fear it. People would be terrified of the Scarecrow and know not to cross him. Not to mess with him anymore.

He had managed to accomplish all of these goals on a small scale… but Batman always put a stop to his bigger plans and bigger rogues such as the Joker and Harley always overshadowed him when it came to listings in the newspaper. This hadn't bothered him too much at the time. As far as he saw it, he still had plenty of time to come up with something that would get his name in the history books. Something that would get him remembered forever, even when he was gone.

However, now he was told that his time was coming soon which meant if he didn't succeed in this final mission… then all of it would be for nothing. All the pain he had went through, all the work he had put in, all the time he had spent… it would all equate to nothing if he didn't do something soon. He would just be another criminal face gone… buried underground and forgotten by all. He would only be replaced by the next flashy rogue who decided to dress up and cause a crime of some kind. The idea of all of it being for nothing was scary to him. It infuriated him even.

Most people saw pain as a hindrance. He saw it as power.

He did not suffer all of these years to be another forgotten loser underground.

He was more than that. In a way, he didn't even consider himself Jonathan Crane anymore. Jonathan Crane was the person who got hurt. The person who allowed himself to get pushed around by those bigger and stronger than him. He was the weakling. Scarecrow was the one who accomplished things. Scarecrow was the one who hit back. The one who made sure that every single ounce of pain and fear he had ever felt got flung back in people's faces. He was the one who didn't allow himself to get pushed around… who was capable.

Jonathan Crane was the person for… whom for a split second after getting the news about his state from the hospital… actually considered retiring and trying to enjoy what remaining life he had left. After all, what could he do when he was mangled, half-blind mess of a man who could barely even move without wincing with pain? Scarecrow however, was the one who saw this as his opportunity. As his last laugh so to speak. He had went through pain before and pushed through it… why should this be any different?

He already had ideas. He had plotted them up years ago… however he had never taken the opportunity to do any of it, finding the process of making these plans come through very expensive and it would require a lot of time and effort. One couldn't just make a bomb large enough to take over the whole Eastern seaboard without having to put in some work. But hey… if this was going to be his final mission, then why not right?

Most rogues would've given up after being as damaged as he was… but Scarecrow had no intentions of doing that at all. He would be remembered for making all of Gotham scream in fear. He would be the one who finally destroyed the Batman mentally. The one who finally made the normally stoic man scream in fear.

He would finally figure out what the man was afraid of. He was dying to know. Then once that mystery was solved he would promptly get rid of his one last tormentor.

He didn't care what happened after that. If he got shot by a police officer. If he got killed by some other rogue. If he simply lived the rest of his days and promptly died via natural causes. He just wanted to die knowing that he had finally made his last salute. That he had made his mark on history forever.

He would not fail.

A/N: I hate this story... but I also spent way too long on it for me *not* to post it. So... I hope you found something to enjoy out of it anyway and as always, critique is welcome!