The original defensive bunker in front of Wayne Tower had been reduced to scrap the last time Lex plowed through it with the Batmobile. What stood there now was a reinforced reconstruction—steel plating layered over poured concrete, hastily upgraded under Commissioner Gordon's supervision before the city fell apart.
It wasn't elegant, but it was functional.
Lex wasn't here to bulldoze it.
His objective was singular.
Scarecrow.
He eased the Batmobile to a stop just outside the bunker's firing angles and cut the engine. The tower loomed above, dark glass reflecting the orange flicker of distant fires.
Before he even opened the canopy, screaming erupted from behind the barricade.
"Batman!"
"Oh God—he's here!"
"Help! Don't let him see me!"
Lex paused.
Fear toxin could magnify a person's deepest terror, warp perception, turn shadows into monsters. Scarecrow's stitched mask only amplified the psychological effect.
But these men hadn't taken a full dose. No hallucinations. No visual distortions.
Just raw, unfiltered panic.
At him.
Scarecrow had miscalculated one critical variable: Batman's reputation.
Lex stepped out of the Batmobile.
The reaction was immediate.
Two men bolted from behind the bunker, scrambling toward the lobby entrance. The rest—armed, numerically superior, fortified—dropped their weapons and sank to their knees.
Hands up.
Shaking.
Lex stared at them through the cowl lenses.
"…You could at least try," he muttered.
He'd expected suppressing fire. Maybe a coordinated rush. Something cinematic.
Instead, he got mass surrender.
With a soft mechanical whir, he fired the grappling hook, vaulted cleanly over the bunker, and landed inside the perimeter without resistance.
He walked toward the lobby doors like he was entering a hotel.
Inside, it was the same.
Criminals scattered across the marble floor. Some ran. Some fell flat and begged. One actually threw his rifle away like it was on fire.
Lex exhaled slowly.
"You're making this embarrassing."
Up above, under a harsh white spotlight rigged to illuminate the lobby floor, a thin figure in burlap and patchwork leather stiffened.
Scarecrow watched his army collapse without a fight.
His shoulders trembled—not with fear.
With fury.
"Idiots!" he shrieked. "What are you doing?"
No one responded.
"Get up! Fight him!"
No movement.
Moments ago, he'd imagined himself Gotham's new sovereign. Wayne Tower under his control. Criminals kneeling willingly.
He'd planned to execute Batman publicly—strip him of myth, strip him of power.
Instead, he was watching his authority evaporate in real time.
"Batman!" Scarecrow screamed down at him. "Stop right there!"
Lex tilted his head slightly.
He hadn't even drawn a weapon yet.
"It's your fault," Scarecrow ranted. "You ruin everything!"
Lex folded his arms casually.
"Scarecrow," he called up evenly, "I have a suggestion."
The villain froze.
"Why don't you follow their example? Kneel. We'll wrap this up clean."
Spittle flew from beneath the mask.
"Do you think I'm like them?" Scarecrow roared. "I am the Dark Prince! The rightful king of this city! Gotham kneels to me!"
Lex considered that for half a second.
"The Joker was less dramatic."
That did it.
With a snarl, Scarecrow leapt down from the platform, landing hard but balanced. Twin sickles flashed into his hands—curved, gleaming, theatrical.
He swung them in tight arcs, metal whistling.
"If I kill you," he hissed, "they'll remember who rules them."
Lex nodded slowly.
"Okay."
He flicked his wrist.
A compact magnetic device arced through the air.
Scarecrow barely registered it before—
Clack.
The device snapped onto one of the sickles.
A pulse detonated.
The weapon shredded instantly, metal warping and exploding outward. The shockwave flung Scarecrow backward across the marble floor.
He hit hard.
Lex lowered his hand.
"See?" he said calmly. "That would've been easier."
Scarecrow coughed, struggling upright. One sleeve smoked. Blood trickled from beneath the mask.
Then he started laughing.
High.
Unpleasant.
"You think… that's it?"
Lex didn't answer.
"You think you've won?"
He pushed himself onto one elbow, fingers twitching toward something near the base of a decorative trash receptacle.
Lex noticed.
Too late to stop it—
A sharp hiss erupted at his boots.
Gray-green vapor burst upward in a violent plume.
Fear gas.
It swallowed him in seconds.
Across the lobby, the criminals scrambled farther away, pressing themselves against walls.
Scarecrow staggered upright, clutching his damaged arm, and began to laugh harder.
"How does it feel?" he crooned. "Even a trace dose will unravel you. You'll see your deepest fear. You'll beg."
The gas thickened.
"You'll become my puppet," he continued. "This city will watch you kneel!"
The vapor swirled.
Lex walked forward through it.
Unhurried.
Scarecrow's laughter faltered.
"Submit," he demanded weakly. "From this moment, you are—"
Lex's boot connected with his face.
Hard.
The burlap mask tore free and skidded across the floor.
Jonathan Crane's pale, narrow features were exposed—eyes wide, pupils dilated not from toxin, but disbelief.
"You talk too much," Lex said.
Crane stared at him.
"That's impossible," he whispered. "You inhaled it."
Lex didn't answer.
Crane's voice rose, frantic. "I improved the formula! Even the Joker reacted to earlier versions. You should be—"
Lex drove a kick into his stomach.
Crane folded instantly, curling on the floor.
"I'm not your lab partner," Lex replied flatly.
Crane wheezed, clutching his ribs.
"I recalibrated the compound," he muttered, mind racing aloud. "It bypasses common inhibitors. Heightened amygdala stimulation. Increased neurochemical cascade…"
He looked up again, almost pleading now.
"Why aren't you afraid?"
Because Lex's physiology currently carried something far more potent than Crane's concoction.
A certain plant-based immunity enhancement he'd acquired weeks ago.
Fear toxin wasn't even in the same league.
But he wasn't about to explain that.
Crane's breathing quickened.
Then, suddenly, his expression shifted.
Understanding—misguided but confident—lit his eyes.
"Antitoxin," he rasped. "You developed an antitoxin."
Lex remained silent.
"Yes," Crane insisted, convincing himself. "After I gassed Catwoman, you must have synthesized resistance. Injected yourself. Built immunity."
He began to laugh again—weak, but triumphant in his own logic.
"You're not fearless," he said. "You're medicated."
Lex crouched down slowly, grabbing Crane by the collar.
"If that helps you sleep," he said quietly, "go with it."
Crane swallowed.
Around them, the remaining criminals stayed frozen, too terrified to move.
Lex activated a wrist comm.
"GCPD frequency override," he said. "Wayne Tower secure. Multiple suspects ready for pickup."
He tightened a restraint cuff around Crane's wrists.
The so-called Dark Prince of Gotham trembled on the floor, mask discarded, kingdom gone.
As Lex stood, Crane managed one final bitter whisper.
"You can't erase fear, Batman."
Lex looked down at him.
"I don't need to."
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
And for the first time since the toxin had flooded Gotham's streets, Wayne Tower stood quiet.
....
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