The Scarecrow

Lois struggled, but the gloved hand clung to her arm, squeezing tightly, and spun her around. Her right hand came up, fingers crimped into claws, ready to strike—but when she saw her assailant, she hesitated. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to grab her other arm and pin her to the wall.

His clothes looked old, worn, patched and mended, weather-beaten. Bits of straw stuck out at the seams, just to complete the look, but she could feel hard bone and muscle beneath the gloves that gripped her. A burlap sack covered his head, tied around his neck, with dark holes through which wide eyes stared at her, crude stitching giving a mockery of a mouth.

The Scarecrow. One of Batman's rogues' gallery. The so-called "Master of Fear."

"Pardon me, miss..." The voice buzzed and hissed, distorted into strange frequencies. "...but I am conducting an experiment, and I need volunteers."

Lois struggled against him, kicking at his legs, but though she felt them hit, he didn't budge. The supervillain had the strength of a maniac, and seemed insensate to pain.

"You see, I'm conducting a kind of survey." The last word was drawn out and ended in a kind of titter. "On sexual fears. Unfortunately, this is a subject many people have a hard time being truthful about. So I've found a way to help them be more honest in their responses."

His clothes started to smoke—thin wisps of grey rising from his wrists. Lois knew what it was. She had read about it in the Gotham papers. Fear gas. The reporter held her breath as more of the smoke began to pour out. She didn't know how long she could manage it—a few minutes, maybe? Long enough for someone to see, to come rescue her? Or...should she call out, cry for Superman, the police, anyone?

Her lungs began to burn, and she had trouble seeing him through the gas, her eyes welling up, heart pounding in her chest. Yet she could still hear his voice, so clearly, so close.

"You see, fear and sexual excitement are so close, biochemically speaking. All those erotic undertones to slasher movies. The fight, flight, or fuck response. So I wondered if I could...tweak the formula for my fear toxin. But I need research subjects."

Lois gasped despite herself, expelling the stale air in her lungs and drawing in a lungful of that terrible gas, which made her cough. The taste was oddly metallic, like sucking on pennies...

"Now miss," the voice said, and she felt the hands release her wrists as she coughed and hacked. "What makes you excited and afraid?"