2. Hello? Hello? Is anybody in there?

Time seems to be passing at its own rate these days. I say "days," but I can't really tell. There are no windows in here, no clocks, I'm not wearing a watch. I seem to keep nodding off and waking up again, not sure whether I've dozed off for a few minutes or entire weeks. Every time I come to, I find myself sitting here, as always. It almost feels like I've always been here, like I've never left.

That said, it suddenly dawns on me that I haven't actually tried to leave. Haven't wanted to, haven't had the energy to, haven't even thought about it until now. I'm starting to wonder, just now, if it's possible that I'm here by choice--perhaps I've done something to myself on purpose ... maybe this is some kind of experiment, or an attempt to learn something about myself, or to undo something done to me by someone, even ...

Knowing who I am might be a nice start.

1. Write what you know

(The nameless man with a nearly empty mind finds himself in a nearly empty room. The walks are blank. The only furniture is a plain wooden table and a plain wooden chair. On the table there is a laptop computer. It has been turned on. There is a blank page staring at him. He feels compelled to type.)

Not sure what I'm supposed to do with this thing or who it is that wants me to do it. There's a good chance that I set all this up before I ... blacked out, some time ago. There's an equally good chance I was brought here by someone else, someone observing me ... holding me? Perhaps, if it is someone else, that person is as much in the dark as am I about who I am and why I'm here.

Haven't tried the door yet to see if it's locked. That didn't even occur to me until now. I doubt I could even stand up, let alone walk, if I tried. It's as if I just woke up in this chair, at this desk, ready to write. I vaguely remember waking up a few other times, then going back to sleep.

I don't know how long I've been sleeping. Don't know where I am. Still don't know who I am. I see that I can string words together easily; perhaps I was a writer.

The keyword there is was. Whatever I did before I went to sleep, I don't think I can do it anymore. Not sure I can do much of anything at the moment but sit up, stare straight ahead of me, and type these words.

That'll have to do, for now. It's not much, but it's a start.

0. Today is the first day of the rest of your life

(The omniscient narrator returns ... in a new guise)

In some unknown place,
at some time,
a man is waking up.

He does not know who he is
Does not know where he is
Where he has been
or where he is going next.

He knows he is a man
(the evidence of THAT is staring him in the face, wide awake),
but that is all he knows,
and he's not even all that sure he believes it.

The man suspects he has been sleeping
Dreaming
Wild, vivid dreams
Horrible dreams
The kind any sane man would consider nightmares
But not this man.

He does not know how long he has been dreaming
cannot be sure they were only dreams
cannot be sure they will not return
the next time he closes his eyes.

Somewhere in his gut he senses something he does not want to admit
A truth he cannot face
Not yet at least
Not before he finds out who and where he is
How he got there
And why it all happened in the first place.
He wants to go back to sleep
but he can't.
Not now.
Not here.
Because the thing he cannot deny is this:
Something is beginning
or perhaps beginning again
any
minute
now.

296. Media communique

Men and women of Gotham City:

Tomorrow is Halloween, a day long associated with horror. And horror you shall experience in a form more intense than any mere motion picture or amusement park ride.

You have already begun to feel the iron grip of the Honest Men. Tomorrow that grip shall tighten.

Events will unfold in front of Gotham City Hall after dark.

You have been warned. Sleep well, my darlings.

SCARECROW

295. Jonathan Crane

The recent demonstration impressed my employers, as I knew it would. But now is not the time for self-congratulation; my work must intensify.

To that end, I have devised a new experiment involving the subject who called himself the Batman.

First, I must recapitulate an overview of my strategy. With each of the four subjects, beginning many months ago, long periods of total isolation were coupled with increasing dosages of the fear toxin. This had the effect of destabilizing the men's psyches; they learned, first, that they were vulnerable in ways that they had previously worked hard to overcome. Once their denial of their mortality was removed, I began to make clear to them the utter helplessness of their situation. Their familiar costumes were removed, and they spent a transitional period completely naked (but for their masks). In time, they were assigned the new uniforms they now wear, accompanied by certain privileges, like the ability to see--but not speak to--each other for a few moments at seemingly unpredictalbe intervals. Before each such visit, they were administered a strain of the fear toxin that rendered them terrified of their former colleagues, thus feeling even more alone—and ever closer to me.

In my next experiment with the Batman, I shall begin to take fuller advantage of the intimacy he feels with me. This should prove quite ... interesting.

294. The omniscient narrator

Their command performance ended, the four prisoners were placed in leg irons and shackles and marched back to the brig. "Time to clean you pigs up," one of the officers said. At his cue, another two men turned on a huge hose and sprayed down the captives. Great blasts of water soaked their hoods and clothes, nearly pushing them to the ground.

Batman and the others made no attempt to resist, but their passivity did not stop the guards from delivering a beating. Batons raised, the guards attacked the heroes, laughing as their victims doubled over.

"Remember how tough these fuckers used to be, when they first came here?" asked one uniformed man. "Just look at 'em now."

"Yeah, it's amazing what a steady diet of fear gas, torture, and mental conditioning can do," replied another.

"You can say that again," said the first man. "OK, time to lock 'em down for the night." Turning to Green Arrow, who was lying in a heap at his feet, he barked, "Get UP, asswipe!" When the Arrow failed to respond, the guard kicked him three more times. "Am I gonna have to DRAG you in there? All right, then--you got it."

The guard leaned down and hooked his arms under Green Arrow's armpits, then hoisted him up a bit. Other men did the same with the other three barely conscious prisoners and slowly dragged them to their respective cells. These were tiny spaces outfitted with filthy portable toilets, a couple of wool sheets stretched out on the bare floor, and a pair of dogbowls apiece. The wall of each cell was bare but for a large poster of HateMonger himself, bearing his photo and the words YOU ARE NOTHING. WE ARE EVERYTHING. A high-wattage incandescent lightbulb hung well out of reach overhead.

When the captives were locked into their cells, the lights all went out at once.

"What're you doin' after your shift ends?" one of the guards said to another in the darkness as they headed for the door, their path lit by flashlights.

"Dunno," said his companion. "Work out, watch some tube, have a beer, get some sleep. Same old same old."

"I hear ya," said the first man. "Same old, same old."

293. The omniscient narrator

"Impressive," said HateMonger as he observed the spectacle onstage. His head was cocked ever so slightly to one side, and he was aware that the companions next to him were growing aroused by what they saw. "Faggots," he sneered to himself, apparently oblivious to the fact that his own hand was in his lap, grazing against an ever-growing mound there.

The Honest Men on the stage had begun to lower their jockstraps, revealing fully erect shafts that they now began to stroke. The hooded prisoners continued to kneel; it was impossible to know what, if anything, they thought about what was happening to them.

Scarecrow had his own mask on now, and he walked behind the captives, teasing them with his bony fingers. They did not flinch.

One by one the solders shot their loads onto the hoods of the heroes. "Yeah," grunted one of the men in the audience, temporarily lost in his own excitement. The others chuckled quietly, then turned to HateMonger for their cue. His face completely neutral, he clapped his hands together slowly. They, too, began to applaud, and the nearly empty room began to echo with the sound.

Batman, Robin, Green Arrow, and the Magus kept kneeling onstage, their black hoods soaked with cum. The men who had just done the soaking pulled up their jockstraps and breeches, tidied their uniforms, and then walked behind the heroes. The contrast was striking: four men standing tall, looking magnificent, while four more squatted at their feet, spattered with milky splooge.

"We should shoot those filthy pathetic fuckers right here and now," said one of the men in the audience.

"No," said HateMonger. "Their role in our adventure has only just begun."