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Caveat Emptor	By : devilishkurumi Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Batman (All Movies) > Batman (All Movies) Views: 1874 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, nor the characters or settings; they belong to their creators. I make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 1-Caveat Emptor
- 1
            Doctor Jonathan Crane will live to regret his decision
to meet with Ra’s Al Ghul to discern the potency of the hallucinogenic flower
but, for the time-being, he can’t find any error in his judgment. Ra’s is a
polite enough man, for someone who lives his life with hundreds of trained
killers, and on their trip back to Crane’s laboratory under Arkham Asylum, they
have a light conversation on politics. Neither cares for the other’s opinion
but appearances are everything, especially in a city like Gotham.
            “You can see that we’re short on neither test
subjects nor workers,” Crane finds himself saying as they ride the elevator
down. “Knowing what you want done would make it easier to estimate how many
workers we’ll need.”
            “And your experiments,” Ra’s begins as they step
from the elevator, “What do you plan on doing with those, once you acquire the
flower?” There’s a hint of amusement in the man’s voice, as though he knows
the answer already.
            Crane is used to using entirely artificial
toxins, which aren’t as potent as the flower is boasted to be and have some
slight instability issues from batch to batch. He’s certain, however, that
explaining his desire to study and, eventually, conquer fear – the one thing he
imagines Ra’s is interested in – would be folly.
            “Continue them, naturally. A steady, potent
toxin would make my tests more consistent.”
            “I see.”
            Ra’s wanders the laboratory freely, looking over
everything with a casual air. It’s as if he already knows what to expect.
Crane clasps his hands behind his back and watches Ra’s clinically.
            “You said, in our correspondence, that you
wanted to know the true potency and effect-time of my... toxin.”
            Crane nods. “Caveat emptor.”
            “May the buyer beware,” Ra’s chuckles, pulling
one blue flower from his heavy coat and holding it out to the doctor. Perhaps
Crane isn’t as cautious as he thinks he really is, because he doesn’t think
twice about stepping forward to take it from the man’s hand.
            Ra’s grabs his arm and jerks him forward,
twisting him back-to-chest. Crane gives an experimental twist, struggling to
break free, but relaxes when he finds that escape is impossible.
            “You wanted a sample, doctor.”
            “On a patient, yes.”
            Ra’s makes a disappointed sound and reaches to
grab the doctor’s chin, tilting his head back and exposing his throat to the
air. “How can one attempt to destroy fear, when one does not even know
what it means to be afraid?”
            Crane kicks out almost involuntarily when he
sees the canister in Ra’s’ hand – where would he have the resources to create
an aerosol in his shithole of a secret lair?
            His first instinct is, naturally, to hold his
breath; behind him, he can hear Ra’s inhale normally, even though the air is
thick with fear toxin. Crane’s last coherent thought is that whatever he makes
will be strong enough to bring Ra’s himself to his knees.
            The ceiling warps, drawing down towards them in
spikes and he recoils, crashing into Ra’s’ chest with a wince. He struggles
against the hand on his face, the one bringing Ra’s into his view, trying to
steer his eyes away from the grotesquely malformed face taking shape on the
man’s shoulder’s – eyes glowing red like street lamps, like hellfire, skin
peeling and cracking as though he were decaying from the outside in.
            “What’s the matter, Doctor?” The
thing is no longer Ra’s but something more, something terrifying that makes
Crane renew his struggles with instinctual fear – it has a voice so deep and
menacing that the doctor very nearly shits himself. “You know so much
about fear; believe you can rise above it...” A hand grabs his neck
and he gags even without any pressure being applied, already anticipating the
move.
            He tries to speak but all that comes out is the
low exhalation of air, eyes transfixed on the lips shriveling up and back like a
corpse’s would, revealing jagged teeth with bits of meat still stuck in them
from its last meal – it grins and he lashes out with a hand, grabbing for
something to hit this thing back with, anything –
            A third hand grabs his wrist and pulls his arm
painfully so that it’s hooked behind the demon’s neck, its serpentine tongue
flashing out to lick at its lips before it leans its head in towards him. He
cries out and tries to move, but the beast says, “Be still,” and
God, God he can’t say no –
            It tastes like charcoal and blood and Crane’s
not sure how but it tastes like fear, tongue worming its way into his
mouth, past his teeth and to the back of his throat; he gags, tries to remind
himself that it’s all just a hallucination, and fails when he opens his eyes
and sees men being eviscerated in the beast’s eyes.
            He cries out, gagging on the tongue that’s less
serpentine and more like an actual snake, jerking away and, somehow, slipping
out of its grip. He tries to shout at it as he stumbles backwards, hands reaching
behind him to grab at anything, anything, but now the room is so
unfamiliar even though he’s spent most of his career down here, stalactites all
around and the echoes of screaming and bats in the deep dark caverns above.
The beast steps forward and he sobs, grabbing onto a table to support himself
as his legs give out.
            “Please,” he gasps, “Please-!”
            “Do you think fear listens to the pleas of
children?” it says, pace slow and hands – a multitude of them, though
Crane can’t see where they connect to the body – reaching out towards him,
wanting him back within reach. “Do you think I will listen to you?”
            Crane knows it won’t but he can’t find it in
himself to run; it’s as if merely setting his gaze upon the beast has drawn the
air out of his lungs. He pants and tries to move but his fingers are clenching
hard on the splintering wood. “God, please, I just-!”
            “There is nothing you can say to me,”
the beast says and Crane knows in his very soul – the thing he’s not even sure
exists – that it’s telling the truth. There’s nothing here for him to say
or do; he can’t run and he can’t fight.
            It steps up and puts its hands on either side of
him; he leans back and shudders, shutting his eyes and turning his face away.
“Look at me, Doctor.” He can’t disobey, he just – if he
does –
            He looks into the beast’s eyes again and tries
very hard not to faint, not wanting to be unconscious around such a thing.
Tears build in the corners of his eyes and every slow blink blurs his eyesight
even more; it’s almost impossible to see by the time it reaches out a hand to
wrap around his neck. He exhales once more before the hand clenches down,
nails digging into his skin and palm pressing into his windpipe, closing it
off. He gags almost immediately and the beast wastes no time in sticking its
snake-tongue down his throat again, curling it against the roof of his mouth
like some thick, slimy slug.
            Two more hands grab his wrists and he tries to
push it away, and it pushes him down onto the table, back bending painfully
until he wriggles up to relieve pressure. When a fourth hand grabs his flaccid
penis through his pants, he finally finds it in himself to scream, legs kicking
out only to be pinned back by the beast’s thighs, iron under mottled skin and
torn pants.
            “What is the meaning of fear, doctor?”
it asks as it pulls away, slug-snake tongue rolling over its lips as if
sampling a wine, God it has needleteeth and it’s touching him and he can’t he
can’t he won’t –
            “Let me go,” he tries to say, but it comes out
in a wordless whine, everything growing blurry as he feels near ready to faint,
it isn’t letting go, oh please, no, if he falls unconscious it will, it
will, it will –
            “You see, the effects are slower than they
are with what you might use normally.” Its hand is rubbing him through
his pants while the others are still pinning his arms down and choking him and
he can’t breathe – “What starts as a hallucination builds into an
incoherent nightmare. Do you feel it, yet?” It draws near to his
face, blazing eyes pinning him down, “The sanity you had before. The
ability to run, to plead – it dribbles out of your mind like water through a
leaky tap. Now you’re feeling light-headed,” he was, oh God, he was
choking to death, he didn’t want – “You think you will die but we
both know I won’t let that happen. I still need you, Doctor. So tell me.”
It removes its hand from his throat and he gasps for air, trying to build the
tension to scream but every breath leaves too fast, “What is the meaning
of fear?”
            It almost looks like it expects an answer but it
only laughs when he tries to respond, mouth working but no sounds coming out.
The ceiling dips very suddenly and he sobs, yanking futilely against the hold
on his arms. He wants to curl up, to pull away to be left alone, but
the hand between his legs tells him the monstrous truth, that he isn’t getting
away, that this is all too real and now another hand – he’s lost track of
how many there are – is reaching for the beast’s own pants. He turns his head
away and closes his eyes, feeling the hand on him reach for his zipper,
dragging tooth by tooth so slowly, slowly down.
            “Please don’t do this,” he manages to gasp,
“Please, I just – please.”
            The beast responds by leaning in and licking a
long path from his jaw to his ear. “You know that you cannot beg your
way out of this.” And he does know and that’s what makes it so
much worse. In a world where he has the control, he’s suddenly the pawn,
unable to do anything but moan in terror like one of his patients, “I
think I prefer this version of you.”
            “God, I just – I don’t want this,” he responds,
as if it will listen and it does, laughing at his ridiculous pleas and undoing
his belt, now, the button long since undone, the fabric dropping down to his
knees.
            “Doctor, I believe you’ve realized this by
now: fear is all about control. About losing that control.” The hands
are removed and he sobs, his entire body slack from the utter drain that the
beast’s presence has on him. It grabs him by the hair after a moment, then the
shoulder, fingers digging into his scalp. He cries out as it pushes him over,
onto his stomach, trying to kick out again because now the situation is too
real, so horrifyingly real and he can’t escape this.
            He feels the beast lean into him, seemingly unperturbed
that he’s not even half-hard, its own erection pressing against him, naked,
mottled skin against skin. “And I believe that you have finally lost
that control.”
            It grabs him by the hair and yanks him upwards,
another hand wrapping around his neck once more, making him gasp. “Please,” he
tries again, “I know – I-I know I’m not – I’m not ready but please, t-there
has... has to be some other way, y-you can go you can stop,
please, I just...!”
            It doesn’t seem to adjust itself, doesn’t seem
to care and it thrusts into him with one solid, quick movement, only half
inside him and he screams and screams, dragging in air only to scream again.
The pain is terrible, he can’t even see straight, eyes gazing blindly out at
the blackness that now creates the rest of his world. It pauses, lets him gain
his breath, but there’s no adjusting to the tearing pain, the hot burn and he
can’t relax even though he knows that’s the only thing that will help at all
now –
            Another thrust and it is completely embedded in
him, ripping fresh screams from his throat. “No, no, no! God please no
please stop stop stop!”
            It simply laughs. “Stop? I’ve hardly
begun.”
            After the first few thrusts, he finds that he
just can’t breathe in enough air to scream and besides, what would it help?
Nobody’s coming; they’re in Hell now, he’s certain of it, and this thing behind
him grabs his hair, yanking his head up. His fingers claw distantly at the
table, as if he could crawl away from this, and it isn’t long before the thing
speaks again.
            “Do not distance yourself from your
terror, Doctor.” He moans under his breath, sobbing at the beast’s
grunting and harsh, jerking movements. “Instead, accept it.”
            Another hand dragged over his mouth, stuck
rancid, molding fingers into his mouth, “Now, suck.” And he did
what he was told because he had choked to death some time ago and now he was in
Hell, none of this is real or it is all he’ll ever know again and either way,
what difference did it make? Somewhere behind him, the beast groans, thrusting
harder into him. He can feel blood dripping.
            “Everyone must give themselves to their
fears,” it murmurs into his ear, withdrawing its fingers from his mouth
with a low pop, “It is the only way to conquer them.”
            From then on it’s only silence – he can’t find
it in him to scream and all the beast wants to do is grunt and moan and fuck
him, the passage sounding sickenly wet from the tearing it has caused. He
feels every thrust as if it were the first but now it’s through a distant haze
of exhaustion. Every so often he tries to ask it to stop, but it comes out as
nothing more than a murmur or a sob.
            It pauses at one point and a hand finds its way
between his legs; he jerks away but there’s nowhere to go as the hand grips him
too tightly. Nails dig into soft flesh and he chokes back a sob, shaking his
head because he can feel that he’s half-hard, some part of him liking this
somehow, maybe? “Stop,” he whines, and it tugs hard; he cries out and digs his
nails into the softening wood under his fingers, “Please, just – let it end.”
            And it does end, minutes later with three sharp,
hard thrusts and a low rumble from the beast’s throat, hot and disgusting
semi-liquid being left in him even as it pulls out.
            The world is coming back into focus now but the beast
is still there, turning him around and pushing him to the floor. He sits on
his knees and finds himself staring up at this thing that almost seems to have
the distinct features of Ra’s Al Ghul again.
            It grabs his hair and presses its cock, now growing
flaccid after its release, up against his lips. He retches at the sight and
smell of the putrid thing, covered in cum and blood and the beasts uses that to
its advantage, forcing him to suck and lick it until it’s relatively clean,
makes sure he even swallows. When it finally steps away he allows himself to
drop to his hands and vomit, muscles trembling and glasses slipping down his
nose.
            It chuckles without the same deep baritone.
“You will get your shipment, doctor. I think you can see that it is... most
powerful.”
            Crane gags and reaches up, shoving fingers down
his throat until he vomits again, most of it stomach acid this time, and when
he finally looks up, the beast – and Ra’s Al Ghul – is gone.
            It will be weeks before he can taste anything beyond
the blood and putrid waste. To this day, his dreams are riddled with images of
the beast, slug-like tongue licking its lips as it approaches with innumerable
hands reaching for his retreating form. He always wakes when it catches him.
- 1
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Caveat Emptor