Who is made without fear? (Crane/Luthor)

[Deleted]

אֵֽין־עַל־עָפָ֥ר מָשְׁלֹ֑ו הֶ֝עָשׂ֗וּ לִבְלִי־חָֽת׃
non est super terram potestas quae conparetur ei qui factus est ut nullum timeret
Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear?
Job 41:33

Gentle footfalls on wet and overgrown grass, the boots trod upon land that had been left forgotten for far too long. The weeds battled weeds, straining and creating a consistent carpet of burrs, leaves and tangles that would consume any but the most enthusiastic small animal that might try to run through them. Vines climbed up nearby trees, dead from falling leaves and the lost cold. Civilization had touched here once, but it had left some time back. The farmland resembled something more from a forgotten fairy tale than any place where agriculture might take place. "A fitting sleepy hollow." The copse of trees that surrounded the overgrown farmland cast every shadow into sharp relief, the branches like claws scratching at the edge of stark cold air. There was a comforting crunch as Lex Luthor's feet steadied themselves on the grass.

The cooling whir of the engine maintained a dull counterpoint to the almost empty landscape, intruding at the edge of this abandoned mausoleum to a best forgotten childhood. The rotors slowed, and hummed and in the distance the sounds of birds began to chant names again. A bird flapped up from a branch, landed at the foot of Luthor and said a name.  There are those that say that the ravens spoke the name of the dying, there are those who said they spoke the name of the dead, there are those who say they are tricksters and full of secret wisdom to any who would listen. Luthor ignored the bird, he had no time for superstitions, and light would be fading quickly. 

 It was a dull late afternoon with the chill of the day eking off into the frigid New England night. The trip itself was simplicity via helicopter, a straight shot out of Gotham city from Dini Plaza overhead and overland, really not far at all, all things considered. An overhead flight, near the state border, abandoned church down an unpaved path, largely overgrown with dead and choking brush and weeds. This was a place at war with nature, and losing.

It had been easy to find, with the right set of eyes, or enough of them, and Luthor could afford to crowdsource with the best. Names tracked, cross referenced, medical records checked, and that was the key.

The farm house was the family name on the Mother's side, Elizabeth Crane. Jonathan would have taken that, based on his history. And what a history it was from the file, bastard child, abandoned. He'd been taken in by the grandmother, a history of foster care, lost and found and lost again, Crane was quite the enigma to track down, but the medical records allowed a trace to the mother. And from the mother came the grandmother, Kennie Crane, and from her name an old forgotten piece of property, abandoned, in arrears for taxes for years, no new owners. It was still in her name, although that appeared at first glance to be the only remnant of her remaining within.




Gentle footfalls on crushed wet grass as he approached the cabin. Lex Luthor straightened the LexGlass on his eye. The faint green glow of the screen mingled with the purple lights of the side, it slipped over his ear carefully as he carefully donned gloves, left hand first, then right. He touched the watch on his wrist, then waved his hand over it absentmindedly as the holographic display came up, he set he scanner function to full. "Spectrum analysis, increase visible light spectrum, begin data analysis, and record." The light turned purple on the side and then blinked slightly. Lex Luthor began to walk. 

The farmhouse was wooden, dillapidated and overgrown with the same weeds, trees and brush that came about the outside, it was largely intact, for now, but even so, Luthor could see the wood starting to rot away. The initial scan from the LexGlass suggested that the tensile strength was weak, the place should be condemned, the western wall was already mostly dry rot at this point from several years of snow and ice expanding and melting into the wood. The door was ajar, slightly, Lex Luthor walked up the stairways over the porch, carefully braced his feet on the wood, and then pushed to the door. It was stuck, but a bit of leverage and application of strength allowed it to be opened without much difficulty. 

The interior was a mess, covered in decades of dirt and wet and rot from the water coming in through the open door. Despite that, the place was fully furnished, the decor. . . traditional, to say the least. A long sofa, rocking chair, dust covered and in some cases rotting where the years of wet and cold had exposed to it.

The television set with rabbit ears caught Luthor's attention for a moment. Lex Luthor stared forward for a moment at it, considering the brand name. National. He knew how it was put together, the tubes and diodes on the inside. He'd taken one of those apart once when he was young. Only four years old, he'd used a butter knife to unscrew and pry apart the pieces, carefully, and laid the pieces out on the floor, piece by piece, putting them together. He hadn't had toys, really, so he often made his own fun. He remembered trying to figure out how the pieces fit together, perfect recall how the diode tied into the wire of the dial and the way the transformer choke tied into everything else. He'd made notes in his head and on an old pad of paper next of the telephone, experimenting with each of the transistors. He remembered the way the wiring all played into the dial to let the channel be changed, the circuitry. He remembered the way the red wire singed him before he'd used a plastic fork to finish the job, and the way that the dust had smelled. He still remembered the beating and the way that his father's hand had a curious combination of softness of skin, roughness of knuckle, hardness of bone and ring. He remembered the immediate numbness and the lasting sting of the blood on his cheek. The curse of a photographic memory, the pains were still fresh.

Luthor still felt the well of anger, and the righteous rage at what had come later. Sometimes the best therapy was revenge, and sometimes the best revenge was just . . . letting go. He shook his head and said nothing, turning to look to his right. 

In the kitchen, something was immediately noticable, old farmhouse decor and remnants of old corningware and hung cast iron pots rusted, but the other decoration was of more immediate interest. A large black oval spot on the wall reaching almost floor to ceiling. It looks charred. Something had been burned here.  Lex Luthor looked about the kitchen, there were traces of the burn marks on the counter, all the way to the stove. He lightly touched the wall with his gloved hands, then looked at his fingertips, tracing thumb and middle finger together while the light from his scanner played over the fingertips, cross referencing and compiling the information from the sensors on the fingertips of the gloves. 

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

The scratches from the wood hitting the metal sides of the cast iron skillet could be heard throughout the kitchen. He had prepared the food, he was just told to throw it in the pan and keep stirring it. So he kept stirring it. He was barely tall enough to see the skillet let alone over the stove, but that wasn’t an excuse, the spoon could reach. The food smelt good, but he knew he’d never get a bite of it by the time they were done. His stomach panged with hunger, if he was lucky he may be able to finish cooking the food before she came back.

Today was supposed to be a happy day. It was the first time his mother had come back to see him since he was dropped off from what seemed like ages ago. She had never really explained to him why, only didn’t come back after he was left here. For a small moment there was hope that she was going to bring him back with her, but the hope died after hearing their first conversation. She wasn’t here for him, that much was clear.

But today was going to be a day that he would remember, he made sure of that. He’d been planning all night for it and everything was going to go perfectly. If it didn’t….He had a plan for that too. He’d seen a guy do it on the television once in one of those old western movies that came on after all the other shows went off. He’d had it all set up in the basement already. It looked like it hurt and it took him forever to learn how to tie a knot like that, but he figured it out. The hardest part was tying it well enough to a beam behind the house. He didn’t like to go outside but He would in this case, it was dark outside anyway and he would be hard to spot.

He heard the first few drops begin to hit the ground to his left and splash around the floor. It had taken long enough to start. For a moment he was worried that he hadn’t done it right, but he did. He acted like he couldn’t hear it and didn’t know about it. The plan was to keep stirring the cast iron and stare forward at it. The footsteps came up behind him and his heart nearly stopped. “Jonny? What’s that sound?” His mother asked him like she had always been here. He shrugged a shoulder and continued to stir. He hadn’t been told to stop and knew better to do something different from what he’d been told. His mom had moved over to the spot where the sound was coming from and looked up. She saw the dripping bucket overhead and stared at it for a few moments before she tried to reach for it.

It was placed quite high above, at least for him but a grown up could have just barely reached it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her struggling but her fingers could touch the bottom. What she didn’t realize was what he had done to the bucket to make it heavy on the opposite side and empty on the other to give it the illusion of being light as it hung off the edge. She struggled with it for a moment, he felt his heart stop at the top of his throat. The bucket came down hard after it was tipped by a finger. The dumped the substance he had loaded into half of it earlier on her and he ripped the skillet off the stove. Some of the food dropped into the burner and caused the edge to catch fire. The hidden trail suddenly lit and instantly engulfed the left side of the kitchen…His mother included.

He didn’t know what was coursing through him to give him such a high that he couldn’t hear her screaming, he knew she was. His ears were deaf to it for a long moment as he watched her panic in the fire, her skin burning in front of him. Jonathan’s senses caught up with his mind and he grabbed the bucket under the sink that was normally used to catch the leak. Without another thought he threw it onto her. It swallowed the flame on her but it seemed only to agitate the ground more. He watched his mother fall in the flames and the consumption only continued. Everything was getting out of hand! He wasn’t expecting this. His heart pounded and his eyes panicked as they searched for another method to get rid of the fire.

Jonathan rushed into the back bedroom and ripped the blanket off of his grandmother’s bed. He came rushing back with it and threw himself over the fire to stop it. It was only a matter of shakes left that completely snuffed it. In horror he lifted up and pulled the blanket away to see her…..She wasn’t moving anymore. Jonathan laid the blanket down and tried not to look at her. He grabbed her charred hand which was still hot to the touch and drug her onto the blanket. She was so much heavier than he imagined. Once she was on he grabbed the edge of the blanket and took her outside where he could hide her in the field. The tall grass would shield her from view and he could do something about it later.

His stomach flipped and turned about the state of the kitchen. She was going to know the moment she walked in the door that something was wrong…He was going to have to hide and wait..


A few days earlier….

“You’re a liar, you evil filthy worthless child. There’s a demon in you. You’re a sinner, a worthless lair!” His grandmother spouted as she cracked him across the face. It was true, he had lied. But the truth wouldn’t have gotten him any different of a punishment. He was thankful for the cracks across the face, they weren’t the worst thing that could be done.

She grabbed his hand and his heart stopped. “You need to have him beaten out of you. You need to repent for what you’ve done!” She spat and began to drag him down the hall. “No! Please!” He practically screamed and dug his heels into the floor. He was much too young to fight the pull. He was never strong enough to overpower her. Instead he refused to walk and let his feet come out from underneath him. His nails drug into the wood on the floor and the wall, breaking and busting them will into the bed. They clawed over the crawl space and he just barely caught the door. The small window only he could fit through swung open and he desperately tried to hang onto it. A good tug was all it took to break his hand free.

He was being drug down the hall again to the back room with the door that would never shut well. A constant reminder of what could happen to him if he sinned. The door creaked open with just a breath touching it as if whispering to him his doom.

[Deleted]

Lex Luthor looked over his fingertips as the information popped up on his glasses, the spectrum analysis pinging back with a series of raw numbers. A series of ratios, percentages, oxygens and hydrogens and carbons and amino acids, the numbers flowed quickly as Lex shook his head, the cross reference came back clearly, the mitochondrial match was perfect. "Oh Jonathan. . . " He sounded disappointed for a moment as he sighed and looked up, a faint touch of the scratch on the wall, then a look along the counter back to the stove. "So sloppy."

Such a horrific way to go. She'd have screamed, of course, the damage to the wall would show her struggle, and the scrape on the counter. Yes, he would have had to have been very young indeed. A child, if the records could be matched he couldn't have been older than 10, and if the records of the mother could be traced she wouldn't have been seen anytime after he turned approximately 6 years old. "A creative use of the oil, I suppose. I can't fault you for desperation."

He turned around and looked at the floor, and then at the ceiling. It would be hard to see things with the damage, but this far back into the house, the damage was limited, no this would date back to Crane's time. Easy enough to put the information together.  "Quite the precocious youth." He'd have gotten a thrill out of it, following the abuse, the violence, the powerlessness, the feeling of the seizure of power.

The thrill of patricide and matricide really just ruins a young man, if they lacked discipline. There was really no rawer sense of power than came from overcoming the abuses of childhood, to take control and agency over one's own life. Freud had said that in the end one had to kill their own father to grow. In some cases, it was more literal than others. But honestly, oil, flames, pain and screaming, no this was not meant to kill. Not quickly. Not in such a way. No, the fabric remains showed otherwise. . . he'd regretted it. Sought to fight the flames, but of course it was too late. No, not with that amount of oil. Was it regret? Was it panic? The speed and the sloppiness of the attempts suggested the latter, no this was a man triggered by fear. How ironic that he would forever seek to relive and explore that sensation. But no, this entire matter was not meant to kill, that was not the purpose.

This was meant to wound, to hurt, to exact and repay a lifetime of pains with interest. In the end that was one of the major differences between Luthor and Crane, Luthor realized. Burned to death in a kitchen in front of you, to watch it happen  as you watched the flames consume and transform the flesh of the one who had betrayed you, to attempt to change the path and to regain control as things slipped out of your fingers. Emotional, sexual, raw. . . uncontrolled. . . no, a brake line was cleaner. A small modification, a slight variation in the hydrolics and then a quick replacement. An opportunity with excess high quality liquor, he didn't remember buying it, was it a gift? Why look a gift horse in the mouth? What had followed was really just an unfortunate accident, a series of inevitable coincidences, really it was all Lionel's fault, if only he'd sought help sooner. 

It wasn't surprising when Luthor's parents had died in that car accident. With Lionel's history of alcoholism after he'd lost everything, it was a matter of time. The brakes not hit in time, an unfortunate accident, thank God the boy was home. Thank God the girl was safe at a friend's house. How unfortunate that the mother had been in the car with them, and such a distraction, arguing over the boy.

He was so strange, he was so quiet, he'd said such horrific things, really the beating was too much. The neighbors had heard his pleading, they'd heard the argument, they'd heard her yell at him to listen to his father, and then for her to try to plead with him to calm down. But honestly, drunk and hungry after she'd burnt the dinner. What a shame to be drunk and angry without a seat belt while driving, the neighbors had mentioned that he was angry for a day or so how it wasn't really working. He'd broken it somehow, couldn't quite get the latch to work, he'd fix it later in the week when he had time. He was a safe driver, or so he said. He might have survived if he'd hit something else, how unfortunate it was THAT gas station they hit, just at the end of the road, at the bottom of the hill in the Suicide Slums, just the first turn away from the house. The Boy was lucky that he hadn't seen it all through the window, watching his whole life disappear as his parents died. He seemed so flat at the funeral, distraught, but trying to be strong. 

Honestly. . . what had happened to Luthor's parents was just an unfortunate accident. But then again he could always say he was a self made man. And perhaps there was that odd trick of the light in the funeral, young and not even in puberty, dressed so solemnly in hand-me-down clothes while the girl had sobbed. Perhaps it was just the way his face was set that made it look like a faint smile . . . for just a moment. Perhaps he'd maintained that smile in private moments, in the hidden and dark places far away from view. Luthor was always a self made man. Perhaps Crane wasn't so different. The death of a parent always deforms the trajectory of an impressionable youth, but sometimes the challenges a young man faces is the first step towards liberation. There was no greater sense of joy than came from taking control over one's own destiny. The first step towards liberation could never come from another, but only from within. To accept liberation from another was to only be a slave to circumstance, to be free one had to be willing to accept the costs and burdens of responsibility. 

And liberation was sorely required here. The scratches in the walls and the floor suggested a history of being dragged. Tiny fingers with desperate nails, a remnant of one still stuck in the paint he saw. Luthor plucked the nail from the wall, as the sensors on the gloves compared the biological samples. Yes, Jonathan was dragged down this hallway many times, as he struggled and fought pointlessly against those who were larger than him. A pitiful struggle of a small man in a larger world. Luthor had never struggled like that, he'd known it was pointless early on. Without dignity, it created a conflict where he would be weaker. He'd known early on that was stupid. It's why he'd tried to pick his battlegrounds so carefully, even though there were so few he could ever really compete or fight in. Maintain the dignity, find the quiet places of sanctuary. . . like this hallway cupboard. 

Luthor opened the cupboard carefully, it was small, really little more than a crawlway. Meant for storage, beams cramped in the back, really far too small for any adult to move into. Luthor touched the back of his hand and then waved his hand over it, before sticking the gloved hand inside. A light shone from the palm as the data feedback from the camera went to the eye display. It went back a bit. Luthor smirked faintly and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the small round object, carefully placing it inside. He spread his hands in front of him like a puppetmaster with a marionette as the sphere opened and small spiderlike legs popped out of the side. It moved back into the crawl way, revealing a hidden sanctuary in full view around Luthor's head, the holographic projection allowed him to see a full 360 degree view. Pens, markers, a pillow and a blanket almost turned to dust. Liberation. 

Luthor almost let himself smile faintly as he saw the doodles, big buildings, big houses, a dream of a better life. Luthor understood that. He'd hated Smallville. He'd hated the large rubes there who hated him for his name and for the cruelties of his father, sampling just a bit of power. He'd hated the beatings and the quiet cruelties. He'd hated the empty open fields and the way they all clung together and talked about charity and kindness and how everyone got on with eachother and how peaceful it was there and how it was their home, even as they spat on little Lexie and kicked him for being a city boy with airs. So smart, he thinks he's too good, go show him smart, not too smart to avoid a thrashin. Why don't he speak normal, why don't his pa share some of that money, he waernt from around thaire, why don't he go home and leave us alone, don he know he don belong haire? 

Luthor had dreamt of the city again, where the people didn't care and where they didn't lie about it while they kicked your teeth in. A place where children weren't taken out into the cornfields at night and then tied naked to a post. A place where your tools weren't stolen and where they didn't chase you with a truck. A place where you could go into town and the music didn't stop and everyone stared. A place where idiots didn't tell you what a sinner you were, and how doom was coming to you, while they congratulated themselves on how merciful and how kind they were.

He dreamed of a place where the children of your father's rich friends didn't hate you for being a rube, and the rubes didn't hate you for being rich. Luthor hated his prison in Smallville, where people dreamed of a better world for the right kind of people. That was a nostalgic utopia that Little Lexie had never been invited to be a part of, in fact it was very clear that world had no place for a freak like him. 

They'd cheered when his family was run out of town, the money stolen by Lionel's business partners. They'd laughed and thrown things at the car as they were driven out of town. What goes around comes around, they said. The mighty hath fallen, cause they deserved it. Everyone laughs, everyone cheers, a big celebration in the civic center.

They didn't laugh so hard when the town's economy collapsed and "the youngins" had to make a life in the big city. Sometimes the best revenge is the inevitable consequences of choices. . . although Lex did take the time to rub a little salt in that wound later, once he was rich. He was only human after all, and he was more than willing to give the people what they wanted.

It's why he'd purchased so much of that land in Smallville, sold by desperate farmers and escaping youngsters for a cash advance, reverse mortgages and land opportunities. He'd taken quite a loss on the deal, there was a diminishing profit in rent from desperate farmers, and he'd never taken the trouble to develop any of the other land. They wanted an idyllic primitive utopia without the big city corruption. He given them exactly what they'd asked for, while the town slowly died with the land left fallow. Maybe in 50 years there'd be a small monument in the memory of Smallville, but it was unlikely. The town would be forgotten, wasting away while its people looked up to him for mercy, to save them from their utopia, and Luthor would be magnanimous. After all, his Utopia had a place for everyone, no matter how useless. 

The best revenge was living well, but honestly it wasn't as much fun as the type of revenge where you actually took revenge. 

The ball walked back, then flew back into his hand, the electromagnets letting it fly back to its target as he slipped it back into his pocket. Lex walked down the hallway some more to the end. Yes, the door.   He looked about the door for any of those lovely little traps, traced a finger around it thoughtfully "What horrors lie beyond here, Jonathan? "

He opened the door. The room itself was quite small, possibly it had been a bedroom at one point, or at least designed to be one, but it was completely bare except for a small desk on one side of the room, a chair in the middle and an iron hook on the wall with chains holding cuffs down from it low to the ground. Luthor approached the desk and saw on the corner an open bible. He glanced down and read " When the Lord shall have washed away the filth of the daughters of Zion, and shall have purged the blood of Jerusalem from the midst thereof by the spirit of judgment, and by the spirit of burning. Is this where you got your idea Jonathan?"

He turned and casually made his way to the chain, low to the ground, the black dried stains nearby, yes, dried blood. He touched it to be certain to allow the sensors to do their work, but he was certain it would be Jonathan's. It would explain the scars, of course, and the untidiness of it all. Luthor looked at the blood on his fingers thoughtfully. It was such a low chain, really, a perfect size for a child. A perfect place to cleanse the sins through blood and sacrifice. He touched the end of the chain again and looked at it, letting the loud sound of the clink fill the silence as he contemplated the stains upon it.

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

Jonathan shivered in the bathroom with a dirty towel wrapped around him. He could feel the fabric seeping in the blood that came to the surface of his skin and stuck to the towel. It stung, but if he took it off he’d bleed on the floor and that would only make things worse. He wasn’t sure if he could clean it up himself, let alone get off of the tub lid that he sat on. His hair was unkempt and drenched in sweat. Every time his body would move, just from breathing or being alive he would wince and twitch. It hurt to be alive….It hurt so much. He didn’t want it to hurt anymore.

If he could just be good, whatever version of good that was. He never really knew what good was. The bible told him things that were good but it also told him he wasn’t good. His grandmother said he could never be good, so how was he supposed to be? She told him that his very presence on this earth was a sin against God. That he was a bastard child that never should have been born. If God didn’t want him to be born…then why did he let him? Because his mother was a sinner?....He was a sinner….he was a walking breathing sin…..and there was nothing he could do about it.

His grandmother told him it was his fault, but how could he fix it? Every time he tried to be good he was just punished again. There was no way he could escape this. He deserved everything that he was getting…That’s what she told him and for all he knew it was the truth.

When he felt it was safe the boy got up and went to the bathroom mirror. He hand to stand on his toes just to see his shoulders, it wasn’t good enough. He drug a small foot stool that was in front of the toilet to the mirror and stepped up on it. He took in his shattered image in the mirror. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore. There was a broken boy standing in front of him. It was someone else, someone that could barely stand up….Who was huddled over in pain. Slowly, he removed the towel from his back. It made a peeling noise as he did and he hissed to try and bare through the pain. The boy turned to the side to try and see the damage.

His heart fell into his stomach and his eyes widened in horror. What used to be his back was once again lashed beyond repair. His entire back was swollen, bruised and still oozing up with blood. Some of the gashes were so big, he didn’t see how there would ever be skin there again. Just as his observation had settled in his Grandmother busted in. “What are you doing you sinful child! Vanity! You just can’t help yourself. You monster. I know what you need.” She snapped at him and grabbed him by the arm.

The drag to the car was a panicked blur in his mind. He knew where he was going….A horrifying place….The place where people become cleansed…..Where they become closer to God. His eyes started to swell with tears as he was pushed into the car. He barely had his shorts on, he wasn’t dressed to go out but it didn’t seem like it mattered. His back stung against the truck seat, it was dirty and it only made everything hurt more. As they approached the church he sank lower in his seat. He knew his doom was coming.

Inside he was drug to the middle of the church and told to stay. He did as he was told as his grandmother left to deliver the horror from the outside. He turned around in the church, the walls damning and judging him already. He could sense her moving around outside it…and then he heard it. The first caw made him jump and turn around, then the second and the third knocked him down. His heart was pounding in his chest, he couldn’t do anything…There was nothing he could do!

Almost like a dark power had surrounded the church a sudden burst of cawing and the flapping of feathers beat against it. One by one they entered from all cracks and openings in the poorly boarded church. He scrambled backward just as a cloud of them swarmed him and began to peck at him. Some tore his flesh, other’s went for his eyes…The only thing that traveled beyond the black cloud was his screams of terror.

[Deleted]

Lex Luthor's footsteps pressed into the rotted wood of the floor as the planks nearly gave way under his weight. Careful steps and placement of feet drew him past the rusted cross on the wall, to the back door, easily opened with a gentle push and copious amounts of lubricant on the hinges. Luthor would have forced the thing open but really it would have just split under the pressure, and Luthor was nothing if not a courteous guest, even if the place appeared on the verge of falling apart. Luthor contemplated for a moment, the locale was really very evocative, a strange combination of American Gothic and natural reclamation, perhaps with smoother lines and glass, relcaimed and smoothed wood, a modernized home would be nice. The modern New New England Farmhouse of a more progressive age, or perhaps just restoration, it would have a perfect view of the local dead trees and overgrown hills, evocative, lovely, chill. Very Ethan Frome.

The noose hung from the back gutter, old swollen knots fetid with frost and moss and growth from seasons of rain and seasons of sun and seasons of snow, the fraying grown strengthened the thing over the years, although now it just hung in stark silhouette against the light and dark. Luthor smiled and batted the thing with the back of his hand slightly, looking at the knot. Tied by uncertain and frozen hands late at night, it hung low enough to be reached, high enough to do its work. An escape route for a desperate and young Jonathan. “Ah, Dr. Crane, ever thorough, ever thoughtful. Truly a scientific mind.” Clumsy, though, as if taught through books and pictures. Still, Luthor didn’t know how to tie an appropriate noose until he was well in his teens, when he was shown the method properly. An escape route, even at such a young age young Jonathan would not be so foolish to plan murder with such a device. Luthor touched the noose idly with gloved fingers, then turned to look again at the house.

Perhaps instead of a rennovation, it should be restoration. An American Gothic farmhouse, rebuilt to exact old specifications. The parcel itself wasn’t too expensive, and the rennovation would make a lovely gift. Dr. Crane was so difficult to purchase gifts for, after all, so entranced and lost in his work it was difficult to really find something personal. It was so difficult to purchase meaningful gifts, when one was wealthy. Expensive gifts, simplicity, and when one was poor people were happy to accept any gift at all, but when one was wealthy, there was more thought to be put into finding something meaningful. Dr. Sivana was easy to purchase for, he was an eccentric, an antiquarian, a lover of the odd and the scientific, and Luthor often brought the old man souveniers from his travels to keep his mentor company in his dotage. Old curiosities or wonders of eliptonic sciences. Miranda was difficult, honsetly, always pretending that nothing effected her. He’d given her gifts and she had rolled her eyes at his “toys” although Luthor knew that she had been enjoying the fragrances that he had been developing for her. He’d seen the hidden and mysterious smile popping through the mask of uncaring apathy and subtle bemusement, the dark shadowy woman really wasn’t so above getting lovely and thoughtful gifts, but what to get Dr. Crane?

It really was quite lovely, and evocative. Perhaps a rennovation of the old home and some napalm. Give the boy a chance at some closure, to do it right, when not lost and cold and dying and starving, desperate and working ad hoc. Really, it’s not every boy that gets the chance to kill their childhood twice, and to do it right a second time. Perhaps that would be a thoughtful gift.

Luthor turned and looked at the Church. Yes, that would be next. Old and rotted wood, it was a stark building free from any of the joys or comfort of a loving God. No, this church was built on brimstone and austerity, and had died a time long before Jonathan Crane’s thin scowl had graced the world. Luthor walked through the open doorway, touching the wall and letting the wood crumble in his fingers. No, this place had been old and abandoned before the time of Crane’s grandmother, even, constructed now of fetid wood, smooth stones and still prayers. The baptismal font lay broken, and the decor within the church remained theoretical, the only color the remnants of old blood on the floor. Luthor looked down and then heard the ruffle.

The place was empty, of course, except for the crows that still nested inside. One swooped down to the broken pew and watched Luthor, then another behind. Crows never forgot a face, and they learned so well. Cunning tricksters of the Avian Class, they stared. The beep on his eyepiece was the first warning, of course, of the thing flying behind him, snapping at his back. Luthor backed away, raising his arms over his head as more and more of the birds started to fly towards him. He reached into his pocket, carefully as the birds pecked at his coat, trying to move through the armored surface, nicking at his head. Yes, that would explain the scars. . . of course it did. The crows had lost their fear of man, developed that taste for blood and flesh. Crows never forgot.

Luthor pulled the pen out of his pocket, and then pushed the button. Pandemonium as the crows continued to fly throught he air in all directions, slamming into the walls, into pews, into the ground, some started spasming in midair, dropping to the ground, slamming about until after a time there was silence, except for the fluttering and twitching of semi-conscious, dazed crows. Luthor unclicked the pen, and looked over the birds. They’d forgotten that there was good reason for fear of the dangerous. Those that forgot their fear often did so at their own peril. Well, anyone that but Lex Luthor, he’d never had much time for fear, dulled the wits, distracted the senses, numbed the intellect. Crows were clever, brilliant for the Avian Kingdom, but really, had they ever invented the cybernetic neuronic activator? The hydrolic feedback tensor? Had Crows created transorbital satellite defense networks? Hell, had any of them even made a God Damned Sandwich? No, because they were birds, and birds were stupid. They never thought things out like a human being. When they forgot their timidity near the Scarecrow they ended up in dangerous places, and when they forgot their fear of man they were destroyed. Because they were birds. Luthor kicked one of the fallen birds with a bit of sadistic satisfaction at the fallen thing, looking down at the blood.

Yes, the scars, here a boy had died and a scarecrow was born. Oh, Jonathan. You internalized that fear, Right here! Even as you died the boy, lifted up by your avatar, your symbol, turning your fear outwards to emphasize your call to power. In the old stark church, in front of the Baptismal. Lex Luthor started to laugh, a small chuckle at first and then an actual laugh as he turned around. It was so damned maudlin, of course this was how it had happened. A bird twitched on the ground and Lex Luthor began to laugh harder, leaning down on his knees as a tear came down his eye. It was just perfect. He caught his breath after a moment, and then looked down again, oh, just so perfect, another laugh, and then he sighed smiling like a madman. “Oh Jonathan, I do so love these chats we have. They are absolutely delightful. Such a singular and unique mind.”

He laughed again and gave a final look about the Church, pulling his phone out of his pocket and catching his breath as he hit the number. “Mercy. I’d like to put a bid on a parcel. You can be generous or aggressive in negotiations, I just want it done. . .I'll send the information now”

Lex Luthor walked towards the door of the church as the foam dribbled from the mouth of a dead crow, mingling with the old blood on the floorboards, Lex Luthor stood silhouetted in the doorway. "It’s for a gift, he's really just so hard to buy for”

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

It had all happened so fast. His heart was pounding and his head was throbbing from the amount of tears that shed down his cheeks as he performed the act. He was frightened and as he burst out the door and jumped off the porch he made sure to clear the stairs. What was he running from? There was nothing left in the house, there was nothing left alive around him. His fingers were trembling and he couldn’t get them to stop at his sides as he ran. He tucked them close to his body to try and make himself disappear into the stalks of high grass and wheat. With his body tucked in close, he slowed down slightly to creep by the scarecrow in the field. He felt like it was watching him, judging him for what he’d done.

He knew he was evil, he knew that he was filled with something that wasn’t good. He was born that way and there was nothing he could do about it. If he was going to survive he was going to have to learn to live with it. The only solution he could come to was to run and run and run.

The boy burst into a sprint again. This time, his hands moved as they should, helping to push his body forward and give him the momentum he needed to go faster. His body was still shaking and his mind was still playing over the scenario in his head. The way he’d swung the handle of the broom at the back of her legs, the way she’d fallen to her knees, the sound that she made as the sack went over her head. The scratched on his arms left from her clawing at him and gasping for air were so deep he thought he’d have scars forever as if he didn’t have enough already. But that’s the way it was meant to be, the evil needed to be lifted from him, dug out of him.

His fingernails still held dirt from digging the grave that she laid in. He didn’t think she deserved one, but he couldn’t just leave her there. No one would ever find her, no one would ever find him, and no one would ever find this place. This was a dead place – it was meant for ghosts and nothing more.

Where was he going?

The boy came out of the wheat field much faster than he’d gone into it and went straight into the tree line ahead. The few times he had been able to wander out here and only taught him one thing, the forest was big and easy to get lost in. But how could you be lost when your only destination was away? Jonathan must have run for hours before he finally slowed down. Tired and out of breath he began to walk through the dense woods. He wasn’t keeping track, but he must have been miles away by now.

After a long walk, he’d come to the first sign of civilized life he’d seen since the farm. It was a semicircle, rounded structure popping out of the ground like a gaping maw. It had a fence around it but it was dented in and cut, either by bad weather or some kind of vandalization. Jonathan didn’t care, he climbed over the broken wire fence and went into the large concrete tunneling. As he went into the mouth of the man constructed cave he could only come up with the conclusion that this was some kind of sewer system. The tunnel took him down before it leveled out. He could see down the tunnel for a while, but there was no light at the end, only the small amount that was given by the entrance.

Hours passed, or at least, he thought it was hours. It had become so dark in the tunnel, even his eyes couldn’t adjust. He had to resort to guiding his way with his hand scraping against the wall. After a while, there was nothing left on his body that didn’t hurt. After what he thought was a few miles in he was beginning to think the tunnel didn’t end. This was some kind of hell that he had descended into and he was doomed to walk it for all eternity. Maybe this was God’s punishment for what he’d done.

He’d stepped in sludge and it was only getting deeper. Before he knew it was up to his knees and he’d stumbled and fallen several times.

How long had it been? Days…Weeks? How was he still alive?

He fell again, this time finding it harder to pull himself back up. The boy had begun sobbing again. This was it, he was going to die here. He was going to die alone in this dark place where no one would ever find him. It was a fitting death for someone as terrible as him. Slowly, he picked himself out of the sludge and leaned against the wall, tears leaking from his eyes and running down his cheeks. He couldn’t move anymore. Stuck there against the wall he started to accept that when he fell again he wasn’t going to be getting back up. A cold chill came over him and he shivered against the wall. Slowly, the boy slid back to his knees and wiped the tears from his eyes. He wasn’t afraid anymore.

With his head hung there he made a choice, he could either die here, alone and afraid or embrace the inevitable. He heard a noise that jolted his frozen body. His eyes scattered ahead of him into the pitch black void. His pupils dilated and his eyes widened. He felt something coming toward him. He could see it, it was coming right at him!! What was it!?

It was the last thing he remembered before he woke up at the end of the tunnel. He couldn’t feel his body anymore, yet he was still able to move, driven forward. The boy squinted to protect himself from the lights harsh rays as he looked out over a forest clearing that led to the edge of a bay. He could hardly remember buildings ever being so tall.