Fear once again prevailed. He wanted to hide. Hide from this giant man - he had nearly a foot on Lyle, but the latter was solidly built, and he’d seen him subdue Waylon with little to no problem. He was pure power. Sure, he didn’t quite match the intellect of Batman — but the Bat’s ability to beat Crane in a game of chess wasn’t what terrified him.
As Lyle advanced towards Crane, the professor let out a screech, and then a wheezing giggle as the euphoria of adrenaline and cortisol danced through his veins. Crane wished to cover his mouth, to protect his respirator from the filthy touch of the officer, but he knew that to do so would only probe further. A part of him WANTED to probe further, the same part that had told him to stand up for himself, to growl at the guard in the first place - the part of himself that lacked any sort of sense of self-preservation.
“We are both dogs, Mister Bolten. The difference is only how much freedom we are given.” He should really shut up now.
“And you? Far too much.” The last words were dripping with venom, even as he screamed at himself to be quiet.
Crane’s laughter grated against his nerves, under his skin like sandpaper. He wanted to crush that damn respirator, just to watch his face when it fell to pieces. But no, too much paperwork. The doctors here were too soft for that, it was bad enough he had to watch them shoot him up with his own damn toxin whenever he got too twitchy, he wasn’t about to get a lecture for damaging a medical device.
Still. He considers, eyes boring holes into Crane as he dared to speak back. Might be worth it.
He compromised. A quick movement of his arm cracks the man’s head back against the wall, and he leans in to growl in his ear. “We are not the same, do you understand? You’re scum. You always have been scum, you always will be scum, and no matter how much they might talk about rehabilitation, I’m going to make sure you rot in here until you die as scum.”
