POV Nameless

Holding Room

Friday 10 a.m.

The Nameless One managed to free himself from the leather restraints by bending his joints in grotesque, unnatural ways. Now, he was desperately trying to scratch the relentless itch caused by the toxin coursing through his body. He began rubbing himself against the walls of the sealed, empty room. With his mangled, damaged limbs, he clawed at his own skin, desperate to escape the overwhelming sensation that consumed his mind.

“Damn, fuck, hate you, suck, shit!” he shouted, a cacophony of insults drawn from the fragmented memories in his mind.

His tone was filled with rage, his only focus being the desperate need for relief. When scratching wasn’t enough, he began slamming his body against the walls with all his strength. The impact brought momentary respite but left behind painful bruises.

{Stop! You have to calm down!} The Library’s voice, now clear and insistent, echoed in his mind.

“It won’t stop, Lib! Please, make it stop! I hate it. I HATE IT!” He screamed, his voice trembling with frustration and despair. His hatred for the itch burned brighter than anything he had felt before.

{Listen to me! Focus on my voice.} The Library pleaded, its tone firm but empathetic. {I need you to breathe. Slowly. Inhale deeply and exhale just as slowly. Focus only on that.}

Clinging to the instructions, the Nameless One tried to follow them. Slowly, deliberately, he began to calm down.

"(Breathe in... itchy... breathe out... breathe in... breathe out...)"

The Library’s guidance, coupled with the breathing exercise, allowed him to regain a semblance of control. Finally, he sat down on the cold, dark floor, his trembling form gradually relaxing as he endured the maddening sensation.

“(I can’t stand it, Library. This is unbearable. Please... make it stop... I’m begging you.)”

{I’m sorry, but there’s little I can do. The only reason you can even hear my voice is because you’re in real danger. Otherwise, you wouldn’t even know how to speak to me yet.}

The undead let out a frustrated sigh. He had never experienced something as terrible as this.

{How are you holding up, little one?}

"(Itchy. Better now that you’re here. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be fighting the walls. Though I guess that’s fitting for me. Every fight I’ve had so far feels so... unworthy of the tales of the squires the Creator showed me.)"

If the Library had a face, it would have grimaced at the mention of the Creator. But it chose to hold back its bitterness for the sake of the distressed undead.

{Those are just fairy tales, exaggerated stories from that... man’s misguided fantasies.} The Library spoke with forced calmness. {And for what it’s worth, you’ve done remarkably well for your first day of life... especially in one of the worst places in this world.}

"(Itchy. Thanks, Lib. That means a lot... Itchy. When is this going to stop?)" The Nameless One continued his breathing exercises, trying to distract himself.

{This isn’t a normal poison. It’s a toxin infused with Scarecrow’s twisted intent to wake you up and torture you. It won’t fade until your body expels it completely.}

“(So... I just need to sweat it out, right? Itchy...)”

{Undead physique.}

“(Oh... ouch..).”

{Exactly. Unfortunately, it’s going to linger for a while.}

"(Lesson learned. I hate pain. No wonder the knights in the stories were praised for enduring it.)"

The library paused at the comment, its tone becoming reflective.

{...That wasn’t pain.}

"(What? But it was horrible!)"

{Yes, the itch is terrible—like if you were bathed in itching powder. But you haven’t felt real pain yet. Your undead form is working overtime to numb the pain you should be experiencing.}

The undead felt a new sensation creeping into his mind. A chill ran through his body as an uncontrollable twitch seized his limbs, and his pupils dilated slightly, even in the oppressive darkness. His immature mind had just encountered an emotion it had never experienced before. It wasn’t anger, happiness, excitement, sadness, or even frustration. No, this was something far more primal—fear. Fear of pain, fear of the unknown. If this unbearable itch was mild, even dulled by his undead nature, what would true pain feel like?

The library’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, stern but laced with urgency:

{Listen. At some point, those thugs will come back for you. The next experiment they conduct won’t be mild—it will be agonizing. Take advantage of your dulled nerves and smash your head against the metal corner of the operation table. Do it now. You’ll only feel sleepy as you die, and then you’ll revive, safe from this madness.}

The undead tried to process the command, but his resolve wavered.

"I can’t do that. My mission is to exterminate evil. If that doctor is evil, then I have to fight him."

The library responded with cold pragmatism:

{You’re weak. You’re imprisoned in his underground lair, and you have no idea what’s going on. You need to retreat and regroup. Otherwise, you’ll end up like the others.}

"The others?" the undead asked, catching onto something.

Realizing its slip, the library hesitated before reluctantly clarifying:

{A few... most are criminals. Not exactly people you should worry about.}

"And the rest?"

With a sigh of resignation, the library admitted:

{Homeless people, mostly. And anyone else Scarecrow finds... interesting or expendable.}

The undead processed the grim revelation. Slowly, his thoughts turned to the others, people likely enduring the same torment—or worse—than he was now. Gritting his teeth, he whispered:

"Do they feel the itch too? Or do they feel... pain?"

The library’s response was somber:

{They’re human. They don’t have your undead resilience. What they feel isn’t dulled. It’s raw.}

"If they’re feeling that... then I can bear it. I’ll find them and help them."

For a moment, the library fell silent. A wave of sadness passed through it as it considered the nameless one’s resolve. A soul only a day old, with the body of an eighteen-year-old, was about to shoulder burdens far heavier than it should. The library murmured softly, almost to itself:

{Foolish... noble... and so painfully naive.}

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The library tried several more times to discourage the stubborn undead, telling him of his inadequacy. The undead, however, ignored the library’s orders, choosing instead to focus on the door while occasionally clawing at his skin. Too many fantastical tales had led the young undead to believe in magic and heroic rescues, and he was about to face a brutal awakening to the realities of the world.

While waiting for his captors, he attempted to repair his broken ligaments, trying to put them back in their original positions. Though deformed, his undead constitution allowed for quick fixes, and his appendages stuck back into place.

An hour later, the door opened, and two muscular, masked thugs roughly handled him, carrying him across the base.

As he looked around, he saw some of Scarecrow’s minions preparing chemical formulas to administer to the imprisoned captives, taking notes as they observed the bloody, paranoid, and scarred victims screaming in pain.

The growing sense of dread only intensified as he reached a strange tube, which seemed to function as a recycled forklift. It descended into a plastic-sheet-covered dome dug into the ground, surrounded by several metallic structures.

They placed him inside the forklift, closed the gates, and pressed a button, sending the cabin down at a steady but rapid pace. Nervous, he tried to find something to grab onto, only to discover how smooth the walls were. As he focused on the ground, he noticed a strange partition running across the floor from both sides.

{Trapdoor}

"Trap wha-"

Suddenly, it felt like the end of the descent had come, and the floor split open. As it parted, he was sprayed with a hidden dispenser in the ceiling, coating him in an oily substance while dosing him with chemicals.

He fell a second time, this time from a height of two floors, but without cause. He felt a numbness spread through his body.

{Second time falling into a room with corpses.}

"(What?!)"

Looking around, he was horrified by the scene unfolding. The floor was soaked in blood, with bodies scattered everywhere. Some still-living captives ran around in a frenzy, stabbing corpses or using their weapons on themselves. Others screamed unintelligible words while some lay on the floor, writhing in agony.

Weapons of all kinds littered the bloodstained ground, and even as mechanical arms descended from the dome to collect and remove the bodies, the sheer amount of blood told the gruesome tale of the number of lives lost here.

Fear gripped the undead. His form tried to calm the panic, but it was impossible to stop the overwhelming terror. His body trembled uncontrollably, locked in a catatonic state as it instinctively urged him to flee.

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"[Look who decided to drop in,]" a metallic voice echoed across the dome.

The undead looked up to locate the source of the sound. He noticed that the vast pit he was in was separated from the dome walls by an abyss several meters deep—too far to jump, even with tools. Above, instead of the many stations operating the dome, there was a black-tinted glass screen where the megaphone voice came from.

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POV: SCARECROW

Behind the reinforced glass, an unmasked Dr. Jonathan Crane, better known as Scarecrow, sat comfortably in a worn yet luxurious leather chair. The chair faced a control panel that operated the intricate systems of the dome below. He relished the moment, savoring a rare period of uninterrupted productivity. For months, he had been working under the generous funding of a certain shadowy organization with lofty ambitions for Gotham.

Without the constant financial strain or Batman's interference, Scarecrow had found himself enjoying the freedom to conduct his experiments. Two entire months of covert operations had allowed him to push the boundaries of his research without much worry about being discovered.

True, he had to endure the company of the clown prince of chaos and the maddening riddles of Nygma, pretending to cooperate with their schemes. But to him, it was a small price to pay for the distraction and protection they provided against the Bat.

The League’s involvement had been a particular boon, ensuring a steady supply of test subjects plucked from both Gotham's streets and beyond. They even provided mystical resources that piqued his scientific curiosity.

“They even helped me capture Gotham's walking botanical garden,” Scarecrow mused, a twisted smile creeping across his face.

He turned his gaze to his prized captive in the observation room. Seated in a cold, metallic chair was none other than Poison Ivy, Gotham’s verdant vixen. Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly with heavy iron restraints. The chair itself was mounted on a wheeled platform, encased in a transparent, chemically resistant glass cage. The cage's airtight design ensured containment, while sturdy external handles allowed it to be pushed and maneuvered with ease. A sleek digital panel on the side connected to an internal chemical dispenser, feeding a steady flow of unknown substances into an IV line embedded in Ivy’s arm.

Despite her confinement, Ivy's defiance burned bright. “Once I get out of here,” she snarled, her voice dripping with venom, “my plants will devour you alive.”

Scarecrow chuckled, clearly unaffected by her threat. He had always been fascinated by Ivy’s unique biology, though his interest was strictly scientific—at least, that’s what he told himself. Her ability to manipulate and enslave others intrigued him, but it was her potential as a reagent that truly captured his imagination.

For years, his reputation as Arkham’s deranged chemist and his unsettling fixation on Ivy had kept him from getting close enough to experiment on her. That changed three days ago when the League agreed to assist him. A so-called "mystic specialist"—with the help of Scarecrow’s potent concoctions—had subdued the formidable Ivy.

From the moment she was secured, Scarecrow had wasted no time extracting samples. Her blood, in particular, had proven to be a veritable goldmine. Just a few drops, when combined with his most potent chemical cocktail, yielded results that exceeded even his most ambitious expectations. The resulting toxin unleashed a spectrum of unpredictable effects, from primal, uncontrollable rage to a myriad of other extreme reactions. Remarkably, it worked even on individuals with enhanced or unique physiologies—such as his most recent anomaly.

But his time with Ivy was running out. The League, recognizing her value, had ordered her transfer. They made it clear that if Scarecrow wished to continue enjoying their generous funding, he would have to relinquish her soon.

Scarecrow smirked as he examined the caged Ivy. “Still,” he muttered, “there’s time for one more test. After all, she could lose a few pounds... of blood.”

With that, he leaned forward, ready to initiate the next phase of his experiments. "Let’s see how my new invention really works."

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POV Nameless One

He had to do something...

A nagging sense of responsibility echoed in the back of his mind, urging him to help those in need.

The young undead could do little more than try to stand, only to collapse back to his knees. The nervous twitches from before had worsened, spreading uncontrollably, but the incessant itch had been forgotten.

Now, the only thought occupying his mind was a desperate resolve: he couldn't end up like the others who surrounded him. He had to help them.

Crawling toward one of the fallen figures who was still breathing, he reached out. As he tapped the man on the arm, he realized with dismay that the figure was catatonic. The man's lips moved incessantly, as if trying to form words, but no sound came out.

As the undead struggled to rouse the man, a shadow loomed over him. The sharp pain of a stab to his back caught him off guard. Toppling over the man, he felt another stab, and then another—a relentless flurry of stabs rained down on him.

Above the chaos, the static-laden voice echoed once more.

"If I were you, I'd take care of that," Scarecrow sneered. "You wouldn’t want your test to end before the new toxin kicks in."

The cruel voice seemed to revel in the spectacle as the young anomaly endured the onslaught.

Stab after stab, pain surged through the undead's body, each strike chipping away at his composure. He could feel anger boiling within him, clawing its way to the surface. His patience, his resolve—they all shattered.

With a primal roar, he lashed out, unleashing a frenzy of punches. His fists landed with all the strength he could muster, pounding his assailant's head and torso. If this brutal attacker wanted to treat him as prey, he would retaliate with everything he had.

Finally managing to shove the assailant away, he saw her clearly. A woman, her clothes ragged and torn in ways that revealed more than they concealed, stood before him. Her appearance spoke of her own torture—her body bore the marks of suffering—but there was no humanity in her wild eyes.

She let out an animalistic scream, a futile attempt at intimidation, and charged at him again. Her knife flashed as she slashed at him, driven by a maddened desperation.

But now, the undead was no longer content to merely defend himself.

The voice from the library spoke:

{Fight them and kill them if you can; you will end their suffering, and with any luck, they will end yours.}

The undead, irritated, mentally snapped back at the voice.

"NO."

Despite the pain threatening to drive him mad, he refused to kill them. They were not monsters—they were victims, trapped and tortured. He would try to help them, no matter what.

{Then let’s go all out.}

Suddenly, an intense surge of energy coursed through his body, as if commanded by the library. His cold, silent heart began to heat up and beat fiercely. Sensation flooded his entire being, every nerve coming alive with vitality.

The once-undead, now alive, was caught off guard by the unfamiliar but pleasant sensation of a living body. Strength renewed, he struck the girl, attacking him with a single blow to the head, knocking her unconscious.

Letting out a triumphant roar, he drew the attention of the remaining aggressors. Five figures turned toward him: two armed with bats, one wielding a hammer, and two brandishing blades. They abandoned their twisted entertainment and began closing in.

From the speakers above, a voice crackled with cruel amusement.

"Look at what we have here. It seems the little anomaly has become a gladiator. Let’s see if quality can overcome quantity."

The press of a button echoed faintly over the static.

{Dodge!} The library’s voice screamed urgently in his mind, but it was too late.

Before he could react, the soft hiss of compressed air was followed by a muted thunk. He felt the impact on his shoulder, where a green tube had embedded itself.

His transformation from undead to living had expelled all the toxins from his body, but now, as a human, he understood the library’s grim warnings. The toxin spread rapidly through his system, and with his nerves no longer dulled by undeath, the pain was unbearable.

His veins burned as if they were on fire, his skin crawling as though it were being scratched from the inside. Clawing at himself in a desperate attempt to stop the sensation, his fingers tore at his own flesh, drawing blood. His nails cracked, splintering painfully as they raked over raw skin.

A scream tore from his throat, raw and primal—a mix of agony and fury.

"HAAAAAA!"

Blinded by pain and rage, he charged at the nearest assailant, a man armed with a bat. The man swung, striking him and sending him stumbling back a few feet. In retaliation, the young fighter landed a powerful punch, breaking the man’s nose, followed by a vicious kick to his groin that dropped him to the ground.

Sensing movement to his side, he instinctively dodged, narrowly avoiding a slash from a blade-wielding girl. But he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the second bat, which struck his left shoulder with a sickening thud.

Pain flared again, but adrenaline and toxins overrode it. Spotting an opportunity, he scooped up a handful of dirt and flung it at the face of the man with the bat. As the attacker recoiled, blinded, the young man charged, tackling him to the ground.

{The bat!} the library’s voice interjected.

Acting on the advice, he grabbed the bat from his downed opponent just as the other attacker closed in. With his new weapon in hand, he dodged a swing from the man with the hammer and struck downward with all his strength, knocking the blade-wielding girl unconscious as she attempted to rise.

Now two of the five were out cold. He stepped back, panting, only to feel his heel scrape against the edge of a chasm at the arena's border.

From above, Scarecrow’s mocking voice pierced the tension.

“Things just keep getting better, don’t they? Let’s make it interesting. If you make it out alive, I’ll let you leave. But first, you’ll have to deal with the rest.”

Cornered, battered, and desperate, the young man tightened his grip on the bat. He would fight—not for himself, but to stop this madness once and for all.

"I wont and you... are going to pay."

"Who do you think you are, the Dark Knight?"

The taunt hung in the air as the teenager froze. For a moment, the searing pain in his body dulled, overshadowed by the grim scene around him. His gaze shifted from the corpses—twisted in agony and despair—to the faces of the deranged. These people had once been ordinary, innocent souls before this so-called Scarecrow unleashed his madness upon them.

The stories of his own origin offered no comfort now, only a yearning for the ignorance of pain he once had.

"(You were right, Lib. I had no idea what I was doing.)"

{You shouldn’t be here, boy. This isn’t your fault. Just let them take you.}

The voice in his mind was calm but grim. He ignored it, resolve hardening as he gripped the rod in his hands. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do. He raised it, adopting one of the sword stances buried in the library of memories.

"(Even if I’m not a worthy the savior , I will save these people.)"

He raised his voice, loud and clear, cutting through the oppressive silence.

"I may not be the Dark Knight, but I am a Knight. And once I’ve freed these people, I’ll come for you!"

He locked eyes with the glass panel above, where Scarecrow no doubt watched. Then, without hesitation, he charged at the remaining trio.

The first opponent, wielding a hammer, was taken by surprise. The rod pierced his temple with a forceful thrust, sending him tumbling to the ground. The second attacker, armed with a bat, swung wildly, but the knight parried the blow with his rod. Seizing the opening, he shoved the man off balance, sending him sprawling.

Sensing danger behind him, the knight pivoted sharply, narrowly avoiding a backstab from the third opponent. The blade missed by inches, and the knight countered with a swift chop to the attacker’s head, rendering him unconscious.

Breathing heavily, he turned to see the last combatant—a girl clutching a blade. She hesitated under his gaze, her resolve faltering. Then, in an instant, she bolted in the opposite direction.

The knight gave chase, adrenaline fueling his pursuit. But it was a feint. Mid-stride, the girl spun back toward him, her blade flashing in an arc. The steel cut deep, slicing from his pelvis to his shoulder.

Staggering, the knight gasped as his blood poured freely from the gaping wound. His trembling left hand pressed against his torso, futilely trying to keep his organs from spilling out. His weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

"(Come on... stay together!)"

But his body betrayed him. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He tried to rise, but his strength gave out, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.

The pain was overwhelming, his thoughts slipping away into darkness.

"(Why... can’t I... move? Think?)"

{A living body holds more potential than a dead one, but it also has stricter limits. Don’t worry. The worst is over. Sleep now. I’ll handle the rest.}

"(What?)"

Doubt and confusion swirled in his mind as his vision faded. Through the haze, he saw the shadow of the girl standing over him, her blade raised.

Several stabs later, the dome was silent. Only the girl and a lifeless corpse remained.

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On the other side of the glass, Scarecrow scribbled notes, seemingly uninterested in the violence below.

"Fascinating. The toxin’s berserker effects are promising, but still not what I desire. I aim to delve into the mind’s deepest corners, not to mimic Bane’s brute venom. No matter—I’ll scrub this formula before the League wastes my time demanding its production. I’ve already committed it to memory."

He pressed a few buttons on the control panel, programming the dome’s cleaning system.Lamenting for but a second the loss of the anomaly.

----------------------------------------

Meanwhile, a quiet shift went unnoticed. Amid the chemicals in the crystal cell, Ivy stirred. Her previously lifeless eyes opened, glowing faintly white with a tint of green. She gazed at the dissolving body of the fallen knight, her voice a soft murmur like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

"A knight... an omen... This world is about to change."

Her eyes closed once more, and she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Above, the doctor remained oblivious, focused entirely on his data.

"Dispose of the girl," he shouted absently to the goons outside of the room, "and shut everything down once the cleanup is complete."