You'd only ever heard of what Scarecrow's gas could do to someone, but you never imagined it could've been so horrific until you witnessed its effects. You were a Medic in the squad, noting on the fact that as the night progressed, there were more and more soldiers turning up with broken bones, missing teeth or twisted limbs. All surely work of the caped crusader.

But soon as the Cloudburst was released, more hell had broken loose than before. You were all warned by the Lieutenant of your squad that gas masks were futile, and so were respirators. No one was safe from the ghastly touch of the gas. And it seemed only more soldiers who failed to avoid the blast radius kept being sent your way.

You'd never felt more at a loss compared to now. The soldiers who'd usually been so confident and so straight-edge, either clawing at themselves or screaming until their throats were raw, shielding themselves from all that their eyes presented them with; what unimaginable horrors they were being faced with, you didn't even want to think about. All you could think was what could you do?

You tried your best to negotiate with one of them, to gently coax him back into reality, even if it proved fruitless and almost impossible, when he seemed to flinch at each visual or auditory cue; you feared that he might've even gone insane, that they all have.