AN: My, my, time does fly, doesn't it? It's that time of year again!

Fittingly for our fear-fond-friend, this year's collection is phobias, ranging from the practical to the bizarre. Title of the collection is 'fear of scarecrows', and title of this one-shot is 'fear of bats'.

Gotham-verse, sort of, deviates like nobody's business. Recommended listening: 'East Hastings' from Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

Bruce lets himself into the warehouse with only a little noise. Alfred will know he's out by now, and he won't be happy, but…this isn't right, what they're doing. People are dying. Jim…Jim might not be okay because of them, and Bruce…

Bruce doesn't want any more people to die.

Crane's men are scattered, relaxed but armed, and Bruce eyes the other end of the room. There's a door there, and he'll bet it leads to Crane's lab. And, hopefully, samples.

But first he needs them not to be looking.

He's not an idiot. It's suicide to take on this many armed men. But he can outwit them, turn their attentions elsewhere.

And that's exactly what he's going to do.

He climbs down, sticking to the shadows by the wall, and sets his sights on a pile of crates. They're his best bet-there's canisters all over the room, but if they're holding what he thinks they're holding, he doesn't want to topple them.

"-happened to Steve?"

Bruce keeps an ear out. Any information is better than none, even if it's just gossip.

"Ran his mouth off, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Crane called him in, two days later I gotta dump his body in the river."

Hm. Silencing witnesses? Or short-tempered?

He files that away for later and darts behind the boxes. Okay, he'll knock them over and run-there's a set of stairs, poorly lit, about twenty feet away. He can hide there, and use his…he supposes it's a grappler. It looks like the one from the Zelda games. It isn't great, but it supports his weight. He'll use it to swing closer to that door while they're busy with the boxes.

He shoves the boxes over and sprints for the stairs, managing to get most of the way up by the time the men converge.

"What the hell?"

"Rat?"

There's a smack and a hissed, "Don't be stupid."

Bruce inches up the stairs the rest of the way-

-and the door opens.

It's not Crane, it's Richardson, and she's got a pipe in her hand and a gas mask on her face. This might be more complicated than previously expected.

"What's going on?"

"Boxes fell over."

"Spread out and make sure that's all." This…this is not how this was supposed to go. "Now."

Oh, well. He's at the top of the stairs now-oh, good, his path to the door is clear.

He draws his grappler from his bag, adjusts his grip, and chucks it towards a rafter. It latches on with a soft clink! and he freezes. Nobody comes. He gives it a tug, and it holds.

Okay.

He climbs up onto the railing, and jumps. Then he's flying.

SCHWING!

And now falling.

Bruce hits the ground and rolls to his feet, severed rope in his hands.

"Well, well. Look at you!"

Oh, dear.

Crane-dressed in ragged burlap and holding a scythe that's taller than he is-cocks his head in an exaggerated manner.

"Little early for trick-or-treating," he says, as his men gather around them, "but I think we've got something to hand out early!"

Bruce flips backwards and is off and running just as Crane throws his hand up with a faint hiss!

Don't breathe in don't breathe in

"Oh, now, leaving so soon?" Richardson appears in front of him. "You haven't even had your tea yet."

She swings the pipe at him and he jumps back-

-only for the pipe to strike one of the canisters.

And snap off the release.

He has time to think oh no before a white cloud erupts from it, engulfing them both.

"He's here!"

No he's not.

There's another clank! and another cloud fills the room. He can't see. He can't see and he needs to get to higher ground and fresher air.

Crane's shadow appears in the fog, scythe dragging along the wall with an ear-grinding scraaaaape!

"There you are." Bruce coughs. His vision is blurring, badly, and he needs to get out. "A tisket, a tasket, you're off to Hell in a handbasket!"

There's a fluttering and the ground beneath Crane splits, spitting out a cloud of…things.

SKREESKREESKREE!

Wings bat furiously against his cheek and something tangles in his hair. He jerks back, shaking his head frantically to try and dislodge it, and trips. His tailbone strikes the floor and he claws at his hair.

Gotta go gotta get out of here what are these things

SKREESKREESKREE!

Whatever's in his hair tears free and crawls down his face, small claws digging into his skin and leathery wings brushing against his eyes. Get off get off GET OFF-

"What do you see?" The Scarecrow looms over him. Bats-hundreds and hundreds of bats-are crawling out of him, out of his sleeves and his mouth. "Tell me."

Bruce claws at the bat on his face, tears it free, and scrambles to his feet. It's not…it's not real. It's not. It's just a drug.

His face stings and he scrubs at it, backs away. The Scarecrow comes closer, bats crunching under his feet.

SKREESKREESKREE!

"What scares you?"

Bruce runs.

The Scarecrow laughs, harsh caws blending with the shrieks of the bats and the screams of the men caught in the gas cloud. Where's the door, he can't be far…

He stumbles over a prone body but manages to keep his feet. Can't be far, have to get out, have to call Alfred.

"Aww, don't leave!" Scarecrow's voice is nowhere and everywhere. "We have so much to talk about!"

THERE!

He bursts into the cold night and jumps for the (blurry, so blurry) fire escape ladder. His fingers brush a rung and he clings, hauls himself up.

The platform feels like ice but he lays flat, arms over his head. Scarecrow does not follow, but his heart's pounding and he can still…still feel things crawling over him.

He dials Alfred.

"Master Bruce, where the bloody hell have you been-"

SKREESKREESKREE!

"Alfred…p-p-pickup."

"Where are you?"

A bat swoops for his face and he has to drop the phone to fend it off. The phone skitters to the ground. Alfred'll find him. He always finds him.

SKREESKREESKREE!

Please hurry. Please.

THE END