Scarecrow's developing a specialized form of his infamous Fear Gas. He needs help from a six-legged critter to perfect it.
Commissioned by @mossy-bugs
Word count: 2300+ || First person POV || Featuring a highly expressive little beetle. 🩷
I am a terrifying monster. This is not a matter of opinion, but rather objective fact. A piece of irrefutable information, like the rising sun or the pull of gravity. The sky is blue, the moon controls the tides, and I am a terrifying monster.
My papa tells me so, and my papa is a genius, therefore the information he shares is fact. He’s taught me many things, such as:
1. My powers are immense.
2. I have conquered many foes and made great contributions to science.
3. I am the most impressive specimen amongst my kind.
4. Every other villain with a pet bug is a loser.
And, yeah, maybe I don’t know what a decent chunk of those words mean, but I’m also very smart so I can glean most of what my papa says when he speaks to me. If I were the same type of creature as my papa, I bet I’d be a genius like him!
“Phobia, it’s time to go to work.”
I perk up as those familiar words reach me. My dark, oval-shaped body leaves the floor of my tank as I take to the air, legs tucked under me as my wings do the work to keep me in motion. I locate the back of my papa’s head just as it disappears beneath his burlap hood and follow him through our large home – a concrete enclosure with boarded windows, multiple floors, and artificial sunlight. Together, we descend a set of stairs and approach the double-doors at the bottom, where I perch on his shoulder and wait just like we practiced.
Papa’s head turns just slightly, enough that I know he’s glancing at me. I wiggle my antennae at him, indicating I’m ready to work, and he pushes the doors open with a flourish.
The space that opens before us is vast and full of countless gadgets I can’t name. The lighting is dimmer here, casting long shadows against the floor that only contribute to the menacing atmosphere. I’m certain that my presence alone is already a petrifying thing to endure, but I don’t begrudge anything that will emphasize it.
We enter the lab together. I watch Papa prepare his latest batch of Fear Toxin into a series of small, pokey sticks. What a Fear Toxin is, I haven’t quite figured out yet, but it’s the most important part of working with my papa. He makes more and more of it almost every single day, collecting special ingredients from other members of his species: tall creatures that move and talk and wear cloth on their heads just like him.
(In the beginning, when I was littler and new, I couldn’t tell my papa apart from them, but because I am the most impressive specimen amongst my kind I was able to learn his scent and adapt accordingly. Because I am a genius just like him.)
“You know what to do,” Papa says, and I perk up at the pleasant tone of his voice. I’ve done this tons of times by now; my technique is nearly flawless with all the practice I’ve gotten, and I’m certain he’s proud. Maybe that will become another irrefutable fact. My favorite fact of all facts.
I leave his side and glide to the floor, approaching another door at the far end of the lab. It’s called the Test Chamber, I think, but I consider it my personal theatre of terror and misery. It’s the space where I do my best and only work for my diverse audiences.
“The date is October 10th, the time 11:50pm. Subject has not yet been exposed to Fear version 18-02… Do you know why you’re here, mister Abernathy?”
My papa speaks into a little box on the wall which makes his voice show up in two places – immediately from his body, and also inside the Test Chamber – while he scribbles notes down on a sheet of paper. He’s so mysterious and cool.
“I don’t!” A-ha, the voice of my newest victim. He says some words to my papa, most of which I don’t catch, but this part of the performance doesn’t matter as much to me. It’s not my turn, yet, so I don’t need to understand what’s going on until it is. “I don’t know anything, I-I won’t tell anybody anything if you let me go! Please let me go!”
“What’s making you say that?” Papa asks. “What do you think’s going to happen to you if I don’t? For the sake of my research, I need you to go into as much detail as possible.”
“Y-you’re gonna hurt me! Or kill me, or something, I dunno, but I didn’t do anything to you!”
“Interesting. These assumptions appear to be universal across the board…” Papa writes more things down. “Hurt you how? Kill you how? Details, please.”
“What, are you looking for ideas!?”
“I’m gathering data, mister Abernathy. Try to remain on-task.”
“I don’t want to be on task, I WANT OUT!”
“Your cooperation is vital to my work, mister Abernathy. The faster you comply, the better your chances of survival.”
The man inside doesn’t reply with words. Instead he makes the Good Noise, which is a bunch of really loud, high-pitched cries I can sometimes recognize. He makes one that sounds like “SOMEBODY HELP ME,” and I don’t know what that means but it sure makes Papa happy, so it makes me happy, too.
“The time is 11:52pm, two minutes and two seconds after initial contact. Subject has refused to cooperate any further, breaking the previous record of three minutes and eighteen seconds made by a former subject. Moving on to toxin testing.”
Papa picks up his pokey thing and injects it into a spongey material on the wall. After a few seconds, the toxin filters through the air vents in the test chamber and emerges as a gas that our newest visitor is forced to breathe in. He quiets down and starts thrashing.
“Holding your breath is futile, mister Abernathy. The gas will not kill you.” Papa reaches for something to put over the burlap sack on his head, covering his mouth with what I’m pretty sure is called a Mask Gas. Or maybe a Gas Mask. Or maybe a Gas Gas. I don’t know what it’s for, but I do know that it means it’s almost my turn to go into the chamber! “You’re going to help me further develop a formula I’m working on. To save you the trouble of potentially misunderstanding my genius, I’ll keep my words nice and small.”
The door in front of me opens. I perk up and crawl inside, opening my elytra to show off my terrifying wings.
“The chemical flooding the room was specifically designed to both emphasize and generate entomophobia, otherwise known as the fear of bugs. My goal is to make people unafraid of bugs become afraid, and those already afraid even more so.”
The creature in the chair looks at me as I approach him. His pupils are dilated and growing even larger — a common side-effect of Papa’s gas. I flash my wings even more and prepare for take-off.
“Tell me, mister Abernathy…do you feel afraid?”
I fly straight towards my latest victim, relishing in his screams and shrieks and squeals as he tries to break out of his restraints and get away from me. This is the desired response, the proper response, and seeing my papa so happy about it fills me with pride every time.
“WHAT IS THAT THING!? GET IT AWAY, GET IT AWAY FROM ME, SOMEBODY HELP! GOD, HELP ME, PLEASE! I CAN'T DIE LIKE THIS, I DON'T WANNA DIE LIKE THIS!”
“Subject’s adrenaline is spiking the expected amount. Visual reactions far exceed the size of the beetle in front of him. Hallucination is estimated to be at least thirty times greater based on subject movement…”
Papa’s talking a lot, which means he's getting good results from my fearsome show. I fly in a tight circle around the creature in the chamber and he doubles his efforts to flee from me when I get especially close to his face.
“STOP! STOP IT, GET AWAY!!”
He's absolutely terrified. Of course he is; I'm Phobia, the most terrifying Calligraphy Beetle in the world!
–
The pattern repeats, a comforting routine I adore and excel at. Papa feeds me yummy plants and gives my enclosure fresh dirt, and in turn I follow him to the lab and scare our victims while he adjusts his fancy toxin. Sometimes I don't scare them as much as we wanted. Sometimes I scare them too much and they die, though Papa thinks that part is funny so I do, too.
It takes a lot of hard work on both sides, but eventually the routine changes. Papa stops asking questions beforehand and has me get straight to work, entering the test chamber to frighten our latest subjects, and their reactions become highly predictable. There are no more mild responses, and there are no more deaths. Everyone seems to've hit the magic sweet spot my papa was going for, which is lots of screaming and inconsolable hysteria. Papa tells me so when the test is over and we leave the lab together.
“My formula is finally ready,” he says. Papa takes off his hood when we get back to my tank and gently scoops me off his shoulder. He doesn't put me back in right away, though, instead holding me up to his face so we can talk directly. I like when he talks to me; his volume is low and his tone is always positive.
“It's because of you that I've perfected it so quickly, my beautiful terror,” he says. I feel proud and happy, and show him my scary elytra to convey this. He shows me all the scary white bones in his mouth in response. “You are the true embodiment of Fear. You are a one of a kind treasure. You are the answer to my prayers and the most brilliant little bug I could have cultivated.”
I know these things, but it's still nice to hear. I think my papa is great, too! We're so horrifying!!
“All of our hard work is going to pay off tonight,” Papa continues, “and you and I will get a front-row seat to witness it. I think you're really going to love this.”
I'm not placed in my normal enclosure, but instead relocated to a much smaller box. There's some nice dirt and food for me to eat, so I don't mind it at all, especially when my new box is strapped to Papa's shoulder. I watch him put his hood back on and stride towards a table laden with all sorts of tools and things, which he starts to attach to his body as well. Once he's done with that, he hauls a really big version of the pokey thing from the lab into his arms and strides towards a door I've seen his hooded henchman creatures come through.
“The time is 11:45pm on October 30th,” I hear him say — to himself or me, I don't know. We head out the door and I'm met with the Outside. I haven't seen it in a very long time. “Fear Toxin batch 18-44, also called Entomotoxin, is ready to infect the field. Potency has been adjusted for maximum cortisol deregulation just shy of fatality, and the havoc generated by fellow villainous participants during the holiday has ensured I may commence uninterrupted.”
Papa starts walking down the street, light-footed to keep my box from bouncing around, and drops a series of small, dark orbs behind him every block or so. One by one, as they hit the concrete, they burst into a cloud of gas. Screaming starts shortly after, and a lot more test subjects begin running around in a panic. I open my wings to scare off anyone who comes too close to us, and when they see me they all make the same, horrified faces and scatter for safety. Papa's delighted laughter joins the cacophony of sound, reverberating around my enclosure.
This is the best day ever.
We keep moving as the chaos spreads, occasionally encountering bodies, people with mouth coverings like Papa has in the lab, and Papa’s friends. A pretty, green lady tells me I'm cute and waves her hand, making some delicious weeds grow in the box for me to eat. I wiggle my antennae at her in gratitude even though I'm not cute. I'm fearsome and mighty and dangerous.
“I'd be careful, Doctor Crane,” she says to my papa, “all of the bats are out tonight, and they enlisted some friends for help.”
“I think they've got their hands full considering the amount of Arkham escapees running around, Doctor Isley.” Papa starts walking again, addressing the pretty lady over his shoulder as we go. “My work is nearly finished, though your warning is appreciated. As soon as I've infected the water supply, I'll make my exit while you and whomever else are free to play as you like.”
She doesn't have a response to that. I wiggle my antennae in goodbye and face forward again as Papa heads for the water treatment plant, dining on some greenery and enjoying the show. Together, we unleash more fear gas and relish in the screams of our victims, and then Papa finds a big pipe to inject more of the serum into.
“Excellent…” he mutters, pushing the large plunger down, down, down, until the system is thoroughly contaminated. “That should keep them on their toes for quite some time. What do you say we tuck in for the night, Phobia? Maybe start a brand new strain for further improvement?”
I hop up and down one time in my enclosure, excited to go back to my bigger tank and do more tests for Papa's next batch of toxins. He brushes his fingers lightly against the edge of the box in endearment and exits the water plant. As we make the journey home, the myriad of screams, explosions, and sirens provides an entertaining backdrop, coming together to form one, spooky symphony as the clock strikes 12 on Halloween night.
I've had so much fun with Papa! I can't wait to do it again!
