The Skin That Crawls From You [A Jonathan Crane Fan-fiction]

A Guest.

After what Jonathon had said, he grew silent. His eyes closed and every ounce of consciousness drained from his face.

Youthful again. A singular tear streaks down his cheekbone and I wonder what he's seeing- ravaged by his own fear serum and unable to look away from the horrors crawling just behind his lids. Unable to do anything but stare directly into the void as it claims him.

"Clear out!"
A voice yells. A throng of boots on cement rings into the eerie (momentary) silence. I want to go see what it is, but I'm too afraid. I simply stare at the door-handles and pray that they don't rattle open.

Crane is probably a wanted man. He let his horrors out into the narrows for whatever twisted reason, to make whatever twisted deal. I should leave him here to rot. I should throw him from this van, I should-

I stare down at his perfect face, his eyes closed gently, his pink lips parted, his ink black hair tussled about his head- still dripping blood.

I can't.

"The bridges are down!"
A desperate voice calls.

They must've been raised in the midst of the chaos, a controlled burn. I can't help but wonder who crane had been making a deal with. For a moment, I wonder what he wanted to do with my help. It must've been something to do with my being a 'weapon.'

"Gentlemen, it's time to spread the word... and the word is panic."
A dark voice had said much earlier. What was the intent behind all of this? To gas the narrows? To cripple Gotham? I can't wrap my head around it.

The van starts beneath me with a shake and I jump to my feet. My heart pounding in my chest. I swallow a bubble of nerves and my ears grow red hot. There's someone on the other side of the divider.

The van kicks into gear and begins to drive. Fast. It growls as it picks up speed, Crane's blood is everywhere, and it flows with the force of the vehicle pushing it into the back doors.

Thank god I'm a weapon.
I remind myself bitterly. But I don't dare look through the caged window into the driver's cabin.

Something hard hits the front of the van and all four tires drive over it. The pure force slams Crane's head into the floor and I wince for him.

"Oops!"
A twisted voice says manically.

"My bad little piggy!"
It's a man's voice, but it's deranged. He oinks like a hog for a moment and spikes the brakes.

We then come to a stop.