Midnight Dawn (Ch. 15) Sequel to SOTM

[§hannon]

Shannon's confused. lol
But, it can't be good if Alex thinks she's going to get the red card (a ban). Hahah.

[sassysarah]

What does SOTM stand for?

[fosforito]

Shadows Of The Mind

That´s the name of the first story..

sassysarah said:

What does SOTM stand for?

[azina]

Here it is, the next chapter.

Crane reached for his pristine white doctor’s coat hanging on the brass hook next to a spare one in case it was soiled over the course of the day, which was a common occurrence with the more violent or suicidal patients. He had not felt nervous since his early days as an intern at Arkham, but today was different. As Crane slipped the large coat over shoulders, he looked at Emily who stood uncomfortably at his side. They were in his office, lined with oak bookshelves, steel filing cabinets, and a large desk with a window shining cold, mirthless morning sunshine behind it. Somehow in Arkham, everything seemed to become depressing, even the morning sun. Maybe it was because the sunlight pooling on his desk was cut with the sharp shadows of bars from the windows.

“I am surprised you still wanted to see Arkham, Emily,” said Crane, trying to lighten the mood. “This is no daycare center.”

“I know, Jon, but I am curious about what you do and where you have been all this time. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have the courage to work here.”

Crane smoothed out his pure white coat.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t have the patience to work with that many children,” Crane said. “But I think you already know that.”

“I don’t know, Jon. You were so kind to Jerry. He has been going through some rough times. It must have meant so much to him what you did yesterday.”

Crane’s normally cool eyes brightened, but just momentarily. As quickly as the spark flared, it died and he busied himself with clipping on his badge and presenting her with a large plastic guest badge.

“I recommend you stay close to me at all times, Emily. Arkham is not a safe place, even for its physicians.”

“Again, trying to protect me.” Nonchalantly she clipped on the badge. “Just what are you afraid of Jon?”

“Just, please do not wander off. Some of the patients here are imbalanced and prone to violence.”

“Have any of them hurt you, Jon?”

A sly grin crept across his lips.

“Not yet – nor will they,” he said.

“How can you be so confident?”

But he didn’t answer her question, all he asked her was:

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

Crane paused.

“Are you ready? We don’t have to do this –”

“No, Jon, I am ready.”

He slightly smiled, then straightened much like a general preparing to enter a battlefield and opened the door. A bright light flooded Emily’s eyes from the dark, sedate quarters of Crane’s office. Already from the narrow confines of the door’s frame she could see nurses rushing around and a few patients being ferried in wheelchairs. Crane looped his arm in hers. Emily at first thought it was a sign of affection, but she saw no smile on his lips now, no warmth in his eyes. She realized now he was doing this to make sure she kept up with him step for step and didn’t wander off as he had warned.

They entered the corridor and Arkham truly was Gotham City’s Bedlam, swarming with tightly controlled chaos. It its own well-ordered city, a City of the Mad and she soon realized Dr. Jonathan Crane was its Mayor. Almost as soon as a nurse spied him she rushed up to him.

“Dr. Crane, we have a situation. Mr. Worth is having psychotic delusions.”

“Typical for the early morning. A mild sedative should do … 200 mg. Thank you, Miss Elliott.”

That nurse ran off and Crane and Emily walked a few more paces before an orderly came to him.

“Dr. Crane, Mrs. Stewenz won’t stop shrieking.”

“And why is that, Mr. Iyo,” Crane asked coolly.

“I believe there’s a spider in her room. Her chart says arachnophobia.”

“Then for God’s sake kill the spider, use a broom if you must, Mr. Iyo!”

This continued for 10 more minutes until Crane passed out of the newer psychiatric ward of Arkham Asylum. Throughout this Emily kept quiet and remained a spectator, watching as Crane reminded her of a captain of a ship giving orders to a panicky crew or a conductor trying to pull off a great symphony after the musicians had broken their strings. Emily was quite amazed Crane hadn’t suffered a nervous breakdown long ago.

Or maybe he has I don’t know it yet, she thought.

As Crane turned the corridor, Emily noticed they approached a heavy steel door with triple locks. Quickly he snapped off his ID card and swiped it through a key lock. The light over the door flashed from red to green. The locks snapped open with a harsh Clack and the rusty white doors wheeled back on their hinges, which sounded like a tormented groan.

“We now have 30 seconds to enter the Restricted Ward before it locks down again,” Crane said.

He looped his arm through hers and led her through. She gazed at the long hallway before her, white, cold, lined by equally thick pale green metal doors. Although calm and quiet compared to the ward she passed through, this place felt deathly eerie, like a tomb.

“And what sort of patients are treated here,” Emily asked.

Crane looked down the hall and lightly shrugged.

“The criminally insane,” he muttered.

Slam! Click! The door closed behind them, locking them inside.

“Don’t worry, Emily. In some ways you’re safer here than back in the western wing of the asylum. I take great pride in curing all these patients – all the criminally insane I treat personally. I design a treatment regimen tailor-made to their specific needs and psychosis based on their crime.”

For some reason a shiver ran through Emily, but not because she feared the criminals who lurked beyond each of these metal doors. Somehow she guessed only a truly horrific treatment could cure a mind capable of committing terrible crimes, but she didn’t dare ask Crane for details. She feared shattering any frail illusions that already were like so many wisps of smoke, distorting and vanishing with each passing breath.

She strained as she passed by one window to catch a glimpse and saw one face staring back at her, the eyes haunted, the ragged, bitten-on nails like claws up against the steel-enforced glass. The criminal-patient reminded her of a trapped animal, but something else in the eyes – madness and desperation – dwelt there as well. Was Crane driving these criminals to madness? She turned and looked at him, his clear blue eyes cool and calm, a smug smile playing upon his lips. He clearly was proud and immensely satisfied with the work he was doing here – whatever it was.

Emily was lost in thought as they rounded the corner. She was wrong in her estimation that the Restricted Ward was a tomblike place, dead and empty. Voices did not catch her attention, not when she had a running a self-commentary through her mind. But suddenly she felt Crane’s grip tighten on her arm and she looked up from the view she had been staring at for the last few minutes – her black leather shoes on the scoffed tile floor. Emily saw a nurse in her mid-50s with graying hair whispering close to Crane by the nurses’ station.

“We have a situation, Jimmy Fessanti,” the nurse said.

“The usual,” asked Crane, his voice unconcerned.

“More violent, behavior is more erratic.”

“Perhaps an increase in medication is in order,” Crane said, pondering the possibilities.

Suddenly there was a harsh squeak and a shout of men’s voices followed by swearing from the orderlies and a patient.

“Let me, go,” shrieked the patient. “I have business with my doctor.”

Suddenly the patient, clearly one of the criminals from the neon orange jumpsuit he was wearing, spied Crane and a sadistic smile appeared on his lips, revealing he was missing several teeth.

“Crane,” he spat, as if it was the filthiest curse imaginable. “Crane, we do have business! It’s payback! Falcone didn’t put me in here to be your lil’ lab rat! It’s going to end! I’m going to drink your blood, Crane!”

“And how is this different from last week, James Fessanti,” Crane sighed, appearing bored.

“It’s Jimmy, Jimmy Fessanti dammit, Crane! Don’t they teach you nothing at that fancy university you went to?! No matter! You’re dead!”

The orderlies who were holding him obviously had loosened their grip when he stopped struggling to talk with Crane. In a violent lunge, Fessanti crashed into the medication table, swiped a hypodermic and began charging toward Crane.

“They always go for the hypodermic,” Crane muttered.

Emily was frozen, terrified as the criminal was just a feet away from them with a sharp needle. She was no idiot who never read the papers either; she knew who this was – a notorious serial killer once employed by Carmine Falcone. She gripped Crane’s arm hard, digging her nails into his white coat. How could Crane be so calm now, just seconds from death? Why was he doing nothing? Then Crane slowly, deliberately raised his right arm. His right arm?

Emily wasn’t expecting the reaction it had on Fessanti. His shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he skidded to a sudden halt just a few feet away from them. The criminal was panting, his eyes wild and mad in desperation, fear and hatred. He turned his hungry eyes toward Emily and licked his lips.

“What is this, Crane? You have a girlfriend, now? Coming to show her the animals you keep at your personal zoo? Now I think I have the advantage. You wouldn’t gas me, Crane, not in front of her.”

“She already knows what I do,” Crane said, his voice edged with raw ice. “Don’t think today will be any different.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, I think today is different.” He took a few steps closer, raising the syringe. “I think today is different, because today you want to impress her and seeing me writhing on the floor screaming won’t get you into the sack with her, will it, Crane!”

Crane suddenly turned his aiming arm away from Fessanti and as the criminal saw this as a clear sign to lunge at him with the needle, Fessanti suddenly felt three tiny syringes plunge into his back. The orderlies had shot him with the tranquilizer gun.

“No! It’s not over,” Fessanti gasped, his fingers digging into the floor. “I will – kill – you – Crane.”

His eyes drooped closed and Emily heard the sound of harsh squeaking as the orderlies dragged Fessanti feet first down the hallway and out of sight.

[fosforito]

Oh wow, this was a frightening chapter *shivers*

when you discribed Crane giving orders to the nurses I was thinking all the time:
"What does this reminds you of?" and I couldn´t find the words.

But you did! :
"Throughout this Emily kept quiet and remained a spectator, watching as Crane reminded her of a captain of a ship giving orders to a panicky crew or a conductor trying to pull off a great symphony after the musicians had broken their strings. "
Great!! ;D

Man if this is happening every day to him, it´s no wonder that he changed so much. I think no one could stand so much insanity around him without this having effects on his own personality..

I was first a bit confused when I read that:
"Why was he doing nothing? Then Crane slowly, deliberately raised his right arm. His right arm?"

So, does he has his fear gas somehow under his coat, like in BB?

Well, just a detail but this somehow got my attention.

And Emily - I wonder what she was thinking during the confrontation with Fessanti:
was she thinking Jon´s behaviour would be just normal and professional, to stay calm in a dangerous situation not to provoke anything worse?

Or was she realizing now that sth. seriously is going on with Jon?

Questions over questions again


but again: great chapter and good to read sth. from you again!!!! ;D

[azina]

Man if this is happening every day to him, it´s no wonder that he changed so much. I think no one could stand so much insanity around him without this having effects on his own personality..

In my Arkham, it is commonly that crazy. I give hints to it back in the office. There are two coats in case one gets soiled (ie bloody) from a violent patient and by his behavior, he braces himself before his opens the door, like a general preparing to enter a battlefield.

So, does he has his fear gas somehow under his coat, like in BB?

To be answered in Part Two of this Chapter.

And Emily - I wonder what she was thinking during the confrontation with Fessanti:
was she thinking Jon´s behaviour would be just normal and professional, to stay calm in a dangerous situation not to provoke anything worse?

Or was she realizing now that sth. seriously is going on with Jon?

Questions over questions again

There is a part two to this chapter, so I'm hesitant to answer your questions as to give it away, but let's say poor Emily is in a state of shock right now.

but again: great chapter and good to read sth. from you again!!!! ;D

Thanks! I look forward to you reading your next chapter!

[fosforito]

you already know me Azina ;-)

you know I want to know everything going on in your story but I´m also willing to wait patiently till the next chapter comes out LOL

azina said:

Man if this is happening every day to him, it´s no wonder that he changed so much. I think no one could stand so much insanity around him without this having effects on his own personality..

In my Arkham, it is commonly that crazy. I give hints to it back in the office. There are two coats in case one gets soiled (ie bloody) from a violent patient and by his behavior, he braces himself before his opens the door, like a general preparing to enter a battlefield.



To be answered in Part Two of this Chapter.



There is a part two to this chapter, so I'm hesitant to answer your questions as to give it away, but let's say poor Emily is in a state of shock right now.

but again: great chapter and good to read sth. from you again!!!! ;D

Thanks! I look forward to you reading your next chapter!

[§ilvercell]

MORE!

[azina]

The first signs of autumn, a bite in the wind, chilliness in the air that wasn’t present just a few nights ago lingered in the evening air. Although the lanterns glowed warmly along the darkening street, somehow there was no warmth in them this time and no comfort in the familiar sights and sounds. Emily trembled, clutching her arms while Crane remained close to her.

(You have lost her, Jonathan, whispered Scarecrow. Today’s visit to the asylum was too much. She suspects something. Now she really will leave you – unless you let me take over.)

You shall take over nothing, thought Crane.

(She shall leave you and you will be alone, all alone once again, Scarecrow said. Is that what you want, Jonathan? Is losing her worth your pride? Unlike you, Jonathan, I have no scruples. I play to win.)

You win at any cost, but sometimes the price is not worth it Scarecrow. You have yet to realize that.

Crane always emphasized the “crow” part of Scarecrow when he was getting very annoyed with him.

(You weak, stupid fool! What is there if not to win? If not to be the most powerful, to have all tremble beneath you? If anyone is to learn anything it is you!)

He turned to Emily and noticed her eyes now gazing at the pavement, no longer looking at him anymore. Her lips were pressed together with her thumbs rubbing her bare arms repetitively.

“You’re so quiet,” Crane said. “Although, after today, I wouldn’t blame you. It was foolish of me to take you to Arkham, even at your insistence.”

“No, Jon. Remember, it was I who wanted to see it. And now I have.”

Emily gazed down the street, her eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and regret.

“You have such courage for working there, Jon, but I don’t see how –.”

Emily paused, her eyes turning to the pavement briefly, before reluctantly meeting his gaze.

“What don’t you see,” he urged.

“I don’t see how you can do it, Jon, working there day after day. And that attempt on your life! Does that happen often there?”

Crane paused, hesitant to tell Emily the truth in a way, but her warm, chocolate brown eyes gazed back at him, expecting the truth. She wouldn’t expect anything less from him and he was determined not to lie to her – not now.

“It happens often enough,” Crane said. “It’s to be expected in that line of work.”

“Oh, God, Jon! That’s why you’ve changed so much! How could you not! How awful it must be!”

In Emily’s excitement and fear for him, she clutched his left arm and he felt a sudden thrill through him. Initially it was more shock; it had been so long since Crane had been touched by anyone lovingly. He was used to violent outburst and attempted beatings by patients, but a sudden loving touch almost made him jerk back as though her hand were fire. But instead Crane froze at her touch and allowed the warmth to slowly fill him with that gentle, simple caress, which would have been nothing to anyone else.

“Please don’t worry about me, Emily. I’m quite used to it by now and I have taken many measures to protect myself at Arkham. I am more concerned about you and the possible psychological repercussions todays will visit cause you.”

“I was scared – well terrified honestly. But now that I’m safe, I’m left with so many questions – questions I just can’t seem to answer.”

“Such as?”

“Why did you raise your arm when that man attacked us?”

An uncomfortable silence settled heavily upon them again like the other night. Crane gazed at her, for a moment unsure, vulnerable. He wanted to keep her innocence, oblivious to the evil that he committed, to the influence of Scarecrow.

But how can I continue to lie? She will discover somehow.

(If you would use the Fear Toxin on her this night you would remove all worry and doubt, cried Scarecrow. Why are you being so stupid and weak? USE IT!!)

The wind blew cold down the street and Emily trembled, rubbing her arms for warmth. Her apartment was just a few blocks away down the lantern-lit street. Crane turned to her, his face half-lit, half in shadow.

“Here, we really should get you to your apartment before you catch a cold,” Crane said.

He idly took off his suit jacket and slipped it over her shoulders. Gratefully she accepted it and enjoyed the immediate warmth, then saw the glint of cold steel gleaming in the lamp light. In surprise and shock, Emily turned her eyes toward him from the cage of steel surrounding his right arm.

“This is what I was hesitant to show you, but this is why they can’t harm me,” Crane said, almost proudly. “This genius device was invented by Elliott Maccabee, a fellow student I studied with at Gotham University, now an inventor for Gotham Space Age Industries.”

He held it up to her so she could get a better look and indeed the device was functionally simple, a marvel of steel craftsmanship and appeared incredibly lightweight. Two rings of steel surrounded Crane’s forearm, one at the wrist and the other slightly below the elbow. At the top and bottom of his arm lay two long, sleek aluminum cylinders that appeared to be filled with some air-tight, highly compressed gas. Crane turned his palm upward and revealed the trigger mechanism, which was activated by a barely noticeable thumb switch that could easily be concealed within his coat sleeve. Emily saw a red triangular lever near the switch and pointed to it.

“What does that do?”
“That regulates which cylinder releases the sleeping gas – whether it is right, left – middle indicates both, or if I place it downward it’s in a lock position.”

“That is amazing – but it only fires sleeping gas?” Emily paused for a moment, remembering the scene with the criminal. “Then why did Fessanti say he’d be screaming if you shot him with it?”

“Fessanti is slightly allergic to sleeping gas, but it is necessary to gas him when he behaves in such violent outbursts.”

Emily nodded, but her eyes were distant. He walked a few steps toward her, remembering back on the smiling, laughing girl he once knew so long ago in high school. She turned toward him and he saw a tear running down her cheek.

“Emily, no,” he whispered.

“Oh, Jon,” she sobbed.

She was trembling in his arms, trembled even though she had the warmth of the coat and he held her close. Her soft hair brushed against his cheek and he couldn’t help but relish the feeling of embracing again.

“It was so horrible,” she cried.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

He waited for her sobs to die down and at last Emily turned her head up toward him, her eyes red and wet with tears. Tenderly he brushed the wetness from her cheeks and could feel her hot breath upon his lips. He gazed deep into those eyes, eyes he once felt he could lose himself in forever, eyes he felt he was losing himself in again. He looked at the full redness of her lips, the tender softness of her throat. Gently he caressed her throat with his hand and felt her hot breath quicken upon his cheek.

“Jon,” she whispered.

There was a silence, a moment of hovering stillness between the two of them when they seemed to hold their breath and they held each other’s gaze.

“Yes, Emily,” he whispered.

He pressed his lips to hers, pouring his desires, longings and passion into a kiss. He heard her moan, felt his heart pounding in his chest and her hands clutching his back.

Oh, Emily, I’ve wanted to do this for so long. If only you knew – if only you knew how long I have waited.

[§ilvercell]

AWWWWWW,thats so cute! *falls of chair* OW, MUTHAF-

[fosforito]

Awwwww....
a sweet kiss between Jon and Emily...

(we both would like to be in Emily´s place now, right Azina? )

*sighs*

I knew this would come although it didn´t expect to come now..

Jon´s "gas-system" on his arm was very well described and now I remember a cap I made of BB when Batman is choking Crane in the cellar and I remember Jon having two steel bottles on his belt.

Also interesting to see how Scarecrow uses the possible loss of love to manipulate Jonathan (that´s sth. we seem to have in common in our stories..).

But.. Jon still lied to Emily (concerning the gas), didn´t he?
Or do you put a new element into the gas thing?

Anyway: great chapter and I can´t wait to see, what´ll happen next.

[scotsrockgod]

Hopefully I'll have time to read this this weekend. I can't wait.

[girl in the sharkskin tuxedo]

i love your story so far! Emily is so cute

[azina]

aww, thanks Jinna!

[azina]

If he didn’t know better, Dr. Jonathan Crane would have thought he was a different person, a new man. Although he was in the same dreary office, the sunlight seemed brighter as it streamed through the bar-lined window. He turned to the seemingly endless files of lost cause cases and flipped through them. A day ago he had despaired of ever helping them, but today there was a glimmer of hope in his mind. Today the future didn’t seem so bleak.

(Jonathan, you’re acting like a schoolboy in love. Really I expected more of you than this!)

He continued madly writing notes on some of the cases, jotting down ideas on possible cures for patients who had been, up until now, completely unresponsive to outside stimuli or traditional therapies he had been using.

(Maybe I have misplaced my faith in you, Jonathan. I have great plans for you – for us – and you waste your time on idle fancies, this girl and these patients. Ah, no, Jonathan. We are to be Lords of Gotham, not its servants and not this girl’s plaything!)

I am no one’s plaything, Scarecrow, if you’ve noticed by now. And you were wrong about Emily and don’t wish to admit to defeat.

(That is not love, Jonathan. She is doing that just to satisfy her desires. She will use you for her personal enjoyment and then throw you away. You never found out what happened between her and Kevin.)

Crane ignored Scarecrow, continuing his note keeping and readying himself to leave the safety and comfort of his office for his morning routine of making the rounds at Arkham.

(Jonathan, you may choose to ignore me now, but I don’t want you to get hurt. You have been hurt far too many times before.)

No, Scarecrow, you just want to use me. I know you too well. That’s the one benefit I have that you are in my mind. You may know my thoughts – but I also know yours.

(Don’t flatter yourself, Scarecrow whispered ominously. You don’t know all my thoughts.)

And then Scarecrow went eerily silent. Crane waited almost for Scarecrow to continue on his incessant tangent, as was normal for him, but instead it was quiet, as though he was either giving him the silent treatment or plotting something sinister.

Well let him, I could use the peace and enjoy what small moment of happiness at this point, Crane thought.

He stepped up from his desk, slipped on his pure white doctor’s coat and was almost ready to step out into the madness that awaited him outside that door, but then there was a slight click from the speakercom and a nurse’s voice piped through:

“Dr. Jonathan Crane, I’m sorry to bother you. It seems you have an unexpected visitor here.”

Crane pursed his lips, his eyes turned cold.

“And who is it, may I ask,” said Crane, contempt slowly seeping into his voice. “I know it can’t be Falcone this time.”

“A man here called Eric Syler. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he’s making scene. Should I call security?”

“No, by all means, show the man in. I think I shall look forward to this.”

Crane slyly smiled and removed his doctor’s coat, placing it back on the brass hook and planting himself in the leather chair behind the desk before a thunderous knock came at the door.

“Come in, Mr. Syler,” Crane said smoothly.

He watched as Syler jerked the door open with such force as if the door was a knife he wished to jab through Crane’s heart. Today he was not wearing a black suit, but a pale red button-down shirt and khaki pants. His receding hair was slicked back and he had a hungry, venomous look in his black eyes.

“I’m glad at least you had the guts to see me,” Syler said.

He took a seat on the chair opposite the desk to Crane without an invitation. Crane was fascinated by his anger and the brashness of Syler as well as what secret this man must harbor in order to hate him so.

“As you see, Mr. Syler, I am a man of my word. But I am curious – a curiosity which has not been satiated, I dare say since the symposium – as to the reasoning behind your slanderous allegations of me.”

“Allegations? Look around you, Crane! All it takes is a walk through your nuthouse to see what a state it’s in. A state you personally put it in!”

With the last sentence Syler personally jabbed his finger at Crane, his dark eyes flashing at him. Crane slowly leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his suit jacket waist.

“And pray, Mr. Syler, tell me, why the personal interest in my ‘nuthouse’?”

“Oh, no, Crane. Don’t you turn this around into a personal issue! Don’t you try and start picking at my brain like your poor patients! You won’t do that to me!”

“Do you suffer from paranoia, Mr. Syler?”

“SHUT UP, CRANE!!”

A slow smile spread across Crane’s lips and Syler trembled with barely contained animosity.

“Listen, Mr. Syler, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what is bothering you.”

“Arkham is a blight on Gotham City, a mass torture chamber, Hell on Earth!”

“Now that’s a little extreme – even for me,” Crane said coolly. “Although everyone is entitled to their opinion. However I sense there is something or someone personally involved, perhaps a patient, a patient you know? Perhaps I can help you?”

“Oh, no. I’m not telling you anything,” Syler cried, his face beginning to sweat.

“Then unfortunately I can’t help you. I am sorry, just when I thought we were making some genuine headway too. Would you like to be escorted out now?”

Crane stood up from his chair and reached out his hand to conclude the conversation, but Syler would not meet his gaze and remained fixed in his chair.

“Then perhaps there is something else you wish to discuss,” Crane asked. “Maybe a patient housed in this asylum, a patient I might be able to help?”

“You’ve done enough damage already, Crane,” Syler hissed.

Syler turned his dark eyes up toward Crane and they were filled with venom.

“Tom Syler, does that ring a bell?”

“I’m afraid it does not. Please refresh my memory,” Crane insisted.

“Everyone was talking about your unconventional methods, you’re so-called ‘miracle cures.’ Well I brought in Tom, my brother. He had attempted suicide before.”

“Ah, yes. I am beginning to remember now,” Crane said, his eyes distant. “Suicide cases always are difficult and bear in mind, Mr. Syler, there is no ‘cure’ for suicidal patients, just therapy and –”

“He died under you’re care! It’s you’re fault he died! You failed, Crane! You murdered him!”

“He was a suicidal patient, Mr. Syler, all I could do was –”

“Damn you, Crane! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!”

Slyer shakily yanked out a pistol from his khaki pant’s pocket. His sweaty hand trembled as he held the weapon point blank at Crane.

“I’m here to avenge my brother, Crane. I’m here to avenge his murder. May God forgive me.”

Crane stared into the frightened, wild eyes of Syler, keeping his gaze locked and mesmerized much like a viper does to mouse. Slowly Crane raised his arm, as though to reveal he had no weapon, that he was defenseless.

“Take it easy, Slyer, take it easy, it’s okay,” he said in a soothing, calm tone.

“You let him die,” Syler cried, tears running down his face.

Crane’s face suddenly set to a cool mask and his blue eyes turned to crystalline ice. A puff of gas unexpectedly hit Syler full in the face from Crane’s sleeve and in the obscuring haze a gunshot thundered through the room. Early morning sunlight filtered through the haze; there was a pregnant stillness after the shot before he staggered a few footsteps and collapsed heavily to the floor.