It is widely known throughout Gotham City that Halloween was the absolute tip-top peak of the Scarecrow and The Murder’s villainous escapades. It was also widely known that although they were most active at that time of the year, it was by far not their most violent time of the year. Yes they produced more schemes, carried out more ill-advised heists, and kidnapped more test subjects than normal, but it wasn’t their most violent time. If anything, this time was their most predictable.
But their most violent of times, those came at Christmas.
For some reason, the women in Professor Crane’s employee (as well as Crane himself, really) seemed to go further off the deep end than normal, which was something to be said. It all started about Thanksgiving time, the issues, and it wasn’t until the second few attempts at public arson that anyone put anything together at all. Because on the Friday following Thanksgiving, all the Christmas decorations started to go up.
The trees and tinsel went up into every available spot in the windows and streets of Gotham –including the Narrows- and the music was starting to play full blast on a never ending loop, and regardless of what people seemed to think about the mystic healing powers of Holiday Cheer, it only seemed to fuel them on even more. It just started with public shouting, which soon escalated into public displays of anger, then physically trying to remove the unnaturally bright tinsel from every orifice in the immediate vicinity, then trying to just send up the dry trees, which soon progressed to trying to just light the entire building on fire and all those trapped inside.
Indeed, Christmas Time (or whatever holiday time you wanted to stash there) was the most violent time of the year for them. And if Batman and his gang had anything to say about it, it was the time of the year that they’d most like to see The Murder and Crane stashed away in Arkham. (Not that they didn’t want to see that all year round, of course, but most of all at Christmas time. It was a sore subject for them, it seemed. One too many butt ends of a bad carol rendition at the Joker’s hands.) Regardless, it was also their busiest time of the year.
Something about sparkly lights and the laughter of children seemed to draw in the crazies.
That and Murphy’s Law.
Which is how Bruce Wayne, aka Batman, and his adopted family found out that there are such things as black fake-pines, and an overabundance of ignorant people filling the streets and stores of Gotham City. It was really Tim who’d seen them, standing in the midst of the Home-Depot, hands busy picking around through the odd colored fake trees, a small, ginger child standing with an overloaded cart filled to the brim with on-sale Halloween decorations.
They hadn’t even spotted Crane until Tim had volunteered to go and “find a tree” for them, quickly striding into the fray and right past a very unhappy man in a patched-up coat, oversized glasses dipping down the beakish nose with freakish accuracy. He was standing off to the side, though his hawk-like eyes were trained carefully on the child with the cart, who in turn was watching the two woman man-handle a large, boxed pine into submission. In fact, if Bruce hadn’t been looking, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed the little ticks and twitches when the music changed or someone wished someone else a ‘Merry Christmas!’ at the top of their lungs.
But he was the Batman, so of course he did.
And it was Dick who spotted the color of the pine they were currently wrestling with.
Though, it was Alfred who first caught the whiff of melting plastic and artificial fire.
About an hour later, and several long and lengthy interviews by some unobservant firemen and police officials, it was determined that a spark from one of the long cords of Christmas lights –because there were so many- had been the cause of the fire that took out the Home-Depot and the Lowes that was built right next to it in the cramped city neighborhood, and not foul play. About an hour after that, another series of stores went up a few neighborhoods over for the exact same reason, although instead of the lights, faulty wiring was to blame. After another couple of hours, a total of six department stores, four do-it-yourself stores, and several general convenience stores, had gone up for the exact same reasons.
Almost four hours after that, a small, abandoned building went up, followed closely by the Bat-mobile screeching away from it, the sounds of shouting and fighting following closely behind.
The next morning, Christmas Morning, the headlines of the Gotham paper declared the capture of both the Scarecrow and The Murder and a correlation of events involving massive electrical fires at department stores.
If Arkham just so happened to play Christmas tunes really loud in the cell-blocks, who would ever know?
Continuity: Winter of 2013
The Murder
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Tuesday, November 15, 2011
A Safe Place To Fall
The sound of crowbars hitting flesh and Kevlar was like music to his ears, the Scarecrow mused as he ran full force away from the tell-tale sounds of his Henches pummeling the Dark Knight into the concrete. Yes, to anyone else it would have been a horrible, gut wrenching noise, but for him it was the tune of salvation and freedom. Least he be the one there getting the beating, fists he knew were designed and strengthened to break bones encased in flexible armor and leather marring his whippet thin body once more. No, no, let his employees take the beating for a while, since they were so keen to dish out a fight, and let him escape off into the night with nothing but his pride and costume still intact.
He’d long since stopped carrying chemicals on his body away from labs.
Let the women do the work, after all, they had volunteered. And really, who was he to say no when they were so determined to get chemical burns when they got caught escaping? (And they always got caught escaping…it was just who caught them that always seemed to change.)
Tonight it had been the Batman himself, a first in almost two weeks of his absence and the ever present hovering of Bat-Bunch. Nightwing had shown back up in Gotham at the same time the Bat had disappeared, the ever-present Robin diligently at his side. There had been no sign of Batgirl, but that was hardly a surprise, seeing as how she’d faded from the forefront some time ago. But not the Bat, which was bizarre in and of itself, seeing as how Jonathan was convinced he lived within the stone itself of Gotham City. It left Jonathan feeling uneasy and his Henches with extra tension to work out.
By the sounds of metal still striking flesh, they were doing a damn good job taking it out on the once-more present Batman. Too bad he hadn’t stuck around to watch, because by the sounds of things, they were winning…for once.
Normally they just got in a few pot shots, enough to give him a decent head start, before the Bat started to get serious and they started to get broken bones and concussions. On several occasions they’d even had the luck to be on the receiving end of torn ligaments and fractures bad enough to require pins, not that Arkham had bothered. That’s why the older of the two still had a bit of a limp when she walked, having broken her foot in more ways than one, and the younger of the two still flinching when picking something up when she thought no one was looking. Regardless of what they said, he knew that they still hurt, as he himself did, and despite what they’d like, none of them were getting any younger.
But apparently neither was the Bat…that or they were just really, really upset.
Ah, there were the sounds of metal hitting concrete instead of flesh, and then the sounds of confusion mixed with panic and adrenaline, though they were dulled and muted by his distance now. He’d be lucky tonight, only a few scrapes and bruises, the knowledge that he’d gotten the drugs out of the labs without the Bat figuring out how he’d smuggled them out, and a few weeks (hopefully) of peace when his Henches were drug off for their relatively short stay in Blackgate or Arkham. Really, couldn’t the dunderheads at Central make up their minds as to where they were being sent?
Apparently not, not like he really cared anyways. Either way, it only take them a bit of finagling or work to get back out and to return to him like some sort of overly-aggressive strays…which they were, in a sense. His overly-aggressive strays and he rather thought it odd to think of them like that. Normally he wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole, not if he could help it anyways. They were always…touching him. He didn’t like it.
But tonight they were –not exactly touching- someone else.
Well…more like beating the living Hell out of someone else, that someone being the notorious Batman, but still it wasn’t him. Not that he wanted them to beat up on him, anyways, but sometimes it just irked him to no end when they stayed behind to fight while he ran away like the coward he was. Eddie would accuse him of caring for them, Doctor Chimera of even going to so far as to love them, both of which were untrue and true simultaneously in their own way. He did care what happened to them, because what happened to them ultimately decided what happened to him in the end. He wasn’t heartless…totally, anyways.
But back to what he was doing before he lost himself in his mental musings, as in back to running in a dignified yet appropriately terrified way. The Batman always did have that lovely affect on him, and if there was one thing he knew almost as well as his own Toxin formula, it was that the Batman rarely worked alone anymore. Somewhere out in the dark back alleys there would be another one, a smaller one, but another one none-the-less. So where was the unlucky little devil now? He had a special new batch of Toxin he especially wanted to try out, and with the way things were going tonight, it would be the perfect time to do so.
The swirling sound of a bola flying through the air was his only indication that he wasn’t alone before metal met flesh and soon flesh met dirtied concrete mixed with garbage. It stung where the pavement ate through his thread-bare costume, but no more than scrapes did normally. He’d long since learned not to try and break his fall with his wrists, after having them broken on more than one occasion from doing so.
When that particular train of thought was disturbed by the sudden appearance of his least favorite flying rodent, one that had a ridiculously touchy way of going about crime fighting and no style what-so-ever with that head of long hair, he had to keep from flinching and prepare his now-slightly shaking hand for the delivery that was to come. It would be glorious when Toxin met with nubile young lungs such as the pair that Nightwing possessed, and he couldn’t wait to hear the infuriating man’s screams once it had. They reminded him of past screams heard countless times when he’d used Robin to his advantage.
And regardless of what others thought, he still wasn’t stupid enough to miss the fact that the Robins –yes more than one- changed throughout the years. At least three times, by his count. The body styles had changed, as well as the fact that unless Batman hired a child with a growth problem, the younger male would have gone into a growth cycle at some point. Currently, it looked like he never had, since this was a fairly new Robin. But it didn’t matter…not now, anyways.
What mattered was the fact that he was two feet and seven inches away from the sounds of gas hitting the night air and screaming.
But then Nightwing stopped.
Just as the sounds of labored breathing and metal striking brick started.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little plague doctor?” Nightwing’s attempt at humor had always been filled with flirtatious mannerisms and badly concealed puns. “What, was the big man not enough for you? Need someone else to dance with?”
His Henchwoman didn’t say a word as she took a slightly-limping step towards him.
“I see you’re not in the mood for words. Okay then, how about this?” Nightwing offered, throwing a bat-a-rang at her, which she swatted out of the air heavily with her modified crowbar. Nightwing whistled lowly. “I see someone’s not playing around tonight. Okay sugar, if you want to dance, I’ll dance.”
And then Nightwing launched himself at her, a crowbar flying to meet a set of retractable staves mid air, the clanging sounds of metal on metal growling into the open night air. The atmosphere was tense now that he realized something had gone wrong with the Batman. Espi had yet to return, and he was far enough away that he could no longer hear the sounds of the battle he could when he’d started his own escape. But something had to have happened, since only one of his Henches was here now. They rarely left him alone, and it was even odder for them to split up unless absolutely necessary. They were a better force combined, and they knew it.
So did Nightwing and Batman.
“So where’s your partner in crime, my dearest Poe?” Nightwing taunted as he parried a forceful blow from above, countering it with a low glancing sweep of his own. “Rare I find you lovely ladies without one another, though I’m far from complaining. I like it when I have you all to myself.”
A shriek of fury and rage were all that he got in response, as well as another limb-jarring blow from her weapon. Even Jonathan could tell that Nightwing was having trouble keeping the blows from making their landing sound on his body, as he danced away from her with each passing second. She hadn’t started a direct Toxin flow yet, but still, her strength seemed to be stemming from another source. He wondered if Espi was producing the same results, and if that’s why they’d split up. If the other woman was holding her own against Batman. She probably was, knowing her.
“Alright, I get the picture! Clearly you’re not in the mood for romancing tonight; otherwise I’m sure I’d have heard your lovely voice before now.” Finally a blow connected with his back, sending him sprawling into the alleyway wall. “If you want to play rough, I’ll play rough. But I’m just saying now, I don’t like to have to hit ladies.”
Crane nearly laughed at that.
Those two, ladies? Nightwing would be better off calling the Tranny that worked a near-by street corner a lady before those two, and that was a fact that they readily endorsed themselves. They were far from ladies, and the very idea that Nightwing was calling them such made him want to laugh.
But he didn’t.
Instead he focused on getting the loops of wire untangled from around his legs, pants, and boots; so that he could once again take the opening he was being given and flee back to the Nest. He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. His nails and long fingers worked far better than the girls gave him credit for anyways.
But the sound of whimpering was enough for him to snap his head up in the fight’s direction as he saw his Hench once again catch the vigilante upside the head and send him careening into the wall forcefully, the man sliding down it almost pathetically as he held himself in pain. Jonathan wondered if the man was even still conscious enough to know he was making pain-filled noises, but then doubted it when his bodyguard gave one finally kick to his midsection before turning back towards him, stooping down to help him without a word.
Someone was definitely not in a very good mood.
He doubted either woman would be for a while.
--
What he’d forgotten to take into account was how much of a mood the utter breaking of his companion would put the Batman into when he finally found him in the alleyway a long time after they’d disappeared into the night for good. Not that he expected any sort of emotion but anger and ferociousness out of the Bat in the first place, but something about the hurting of his pupils did something to the man’s already unstable bat-brain.
And here he thought that his own injured employees had been pissed upon returning to the Nest.
At least Colin was staying with Doctor Chimera this evening, and hadn’t returned to the Nest with them, otherwise he’d have been witness to the utter carnage that lay waste to the inside of the hide-out. And that was before the Bat had gotten there. It was a known fact that the use of the Toxin had rather…interesting side-effects on the women in his employment. He knew that it –for lack of better terms- often made them randy and utterly violet in their wake of rampaging emotions. He knew very well the outcomes of such things, as he was often the focus of the emotions.
What he didn’t know was just how embarrassing it was to be caught in the middle of such acts when the Bat came barreling through the sky-light and flimsy roof, followed by a worse-for-wear Nightwing.
Needless to say, they were the talk of Arkham for nearly three weeks before something else came up.
It was a long three weeks.
Continuity: Fall of 2016
He’d long since stopped carrying chemicals on his body away from labs.
Let the women do the work, after all, they had volunteered. And really, who was he to say no when they were so determined to get chemical burns when they got caught escaping? (And they always got caught escaping…it was just who caught them that always seemed to change.)
Tonight it had been the Batman himself, a first in almost two weeks of his absence and the ever present hovering of Bat-Bunch. Nightwing had shown back up in Gotham at the same time the Bat had disappeared, the ever-present Robin diligently at his side. There had been no sign of Batgirl, but that was hardly a surprise, seeing as how she’d faded from the forefront some time ago. But not the Bat, which was bizarre in and of itself, seeing as how Jonathan was convinced he lived within the stone itself of Gotham City. It left Jonathan feeling uneasy and his Henches with extra tension to work out.
By the sounds of metal still striking flesh, they were doing a damn good job taking it out on the once-more present Batman. Too bad he hadn’t stuck around to watch, because by the sounds of things, they were winning…for once.
Normally they just got in a few pot shots, enough to give him a decent head start, before the Bat started to get serious and they started to get broken bones and concussions. On several occasions they’d even had the luck to be on the receiving end of torn ligaments and fractures bad enough to require pins, not that Arkham had bothered. That’s why the older of the two still had a bit of a limp when she walked, having broken her foot in more ways than one, and the younger of the two still flinching when picking something up when she thought no one was looking. Regardless of what they said, he knew that they still hurt, as he himself did, and despite what they’d like, none of them were getting any younger.
But apparently neither was the Bat…that or they were just really, really upset.
Ah, there were the sounds of metal hitting concrete instead of flesh, and then the sounds of confusion mixed with panic and adrenaline, though they were dulled and muted by his distance now. He’d be lucky tonight, only a few scrapes and bruises, the knowledge that he’d gotten the drugs out of the labs without the Bat figuring out how he’d smuggled them out, and a few weeks (hopefully) of peace when his Henches were drug off for their relatively short stay in Blackgate or Arkham. Really, couldn’t the dunderheads at Central make up their minds as to where they were being sent?
Apparently not, not like he really cared anyways. Either way, it only take them a bit of finagling or work to get back out and to return to him like some sort of overly-aggressive strays…which they were, in a sense. His overly-aggressive strays and he rather thought it odd to think of them like that. Normally he wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole, not if he could help it anyways. They were always…touching him. He didn’t like it.
But tonight they were –not exactly touching- someone else.
Well…more like beating the living Hell out of someone else, that someone being the notorious Batman, but still it wasn’t him. Not that he wanted them to beat up on him, anyways, but sometimes it just irked him to no end when they stayed behind to fight while he ran away like the coward he was. Eddie would accuse him of caring for them, Doctor Chimera of even going to so far as to love them, both of which were untrue and true simultaneously in their own way. He did care what happened to them, because what happened to them ultimately decided what happened to him in the end. He wasn’t heartless…totally, anyways.
But back to what he was doing before he lost himself in his mental musings, as in back to running in a dignified yet appropriately terrified way. The Batman always did have that lovely affect on him, and if there was one thing he knew almost as well as his own Toxin formula, it was that the Batman rarely worked alone anymore. Somewhere out in the dark back alleys there would be another one, a smaller one, but another one none-the-less. So where was the unlucky little devil now? He had a special new batch of Toxin he especially wanted to try out, and with the way things were going tonight, it would be the perfect time to do so.
The swirling sound of a bola flying through the air was his only indication that he wasn’t alone before metal met flesh and soon flesh met dirtied concrete mixed with garbage. It stung where the pavement ate through his thread-bare costume, but no more than scrapes did normally. He’d long since learned not to try and break his fall with his wrists, after having them broken on more than one occasion from doing so.
When that particular train of thought was disturbed by the sudden appearance of his least favorite flying rodent, one that had a ridiculously touchy way of going about crime fighting and no style what-so-ever with that head of long hair, he had to keep from flinching and prepare his now-slightly shaking hand for the delivery that was to come. It would be glorious when Toxin met with nubile young lungs such as the pair that Nightwing possessed, and he couldn’t wait to hear the infuriating man’s screams once it had. They reminded him of past screams heard countless times when he’d used Robin to his advantage.
And regardless of what others thought, he still wasn’t stupid enough to miss the fact that the Robins –yes more than one- changed throughout the years. At least three times, by his count. The body styles had changed, as well as the fact that unless Batman hired a child with a growth problem, the younger male would have gone into a growth cycle at some point. Currently, it looked like he never had, since this was a fairly new Robin. But it didn’t matter…not now, anyways.
What mattered was the fact that he was two feet and seven inches away from the sounds of gas hitting the night air and screaming.
But then Nightwing stopped.
Just as the sounds of labored breathing and metal striking brick started.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little plague doctor?” Nightwing’s attempt at humor had always been filled with flirtatious mannerisms and badly concealed puns. “What, was the big man not enough for you? Need someone else to dance with?”
His Henchwoman didn’t say a word as she took a slightly-limping step towards him.
“I see you’re not in the mood for words. Okay then, how about this?” Nightwing offered, throwing a bat-a-rang at her, which she swatted out of the air heavily with her modified crowbar. Nightwing whistled lowly. “I see someone’s not playing around tonight. Okay sugar, if you want to dance, I’ll dance.”
And then Nightwing launched himself at her, a crowbar flying to meet a set of retractable staves mid air, the clanging sounds of metal on metal growling into the open night air. The atmosphere was tense now that he realized something had gone wrong with the Batman. Espi had yet to return, and he was far enough away that he could no longer hear the sounds of the battle he could when he’d started his own escape. But something had to have happened, since only one of his Henches was here now. They rarely left him alone, and it was even odder for them to split up unless absolutely necessary. They were a better force combined, and they knew it.
So did Nightwing and Batman.
“So where’s your partner in crime, my dearest Poe?” Nightwing taunted as he parried a forceful blow from above, countering it with a low glancing sweep of his own. “Rare I find you lovely ladies without one another, though I’m far from complaining. I like it when I have you all to myself.”
A shriek of fury and rage were all that he got in response, as well as another limb-jarring blow from her weapon. Even Jonathan could tell that Nightwing was having trouble keeping the blows from making their landing sound on his body, as he danced away from her with each passing second. She hadn’t started a direct Toxin flow yet, but still, her strength seemed to be stemming from another source. He wondered if Espi was producing the same results, and if that’s why they’d split up. If the other woman was holding her own against Batman. She probably was, knowing her.
“Alright, I get the picture! Clearly you’re not in the mood for romancing tonight; otherwise I’m sure I’d have heard your lovely voice before now.” Finally a blow connected with his back, sending him sprawling into the alleyway wall. “If you want to play rough, I’ll play rough. But I’m just saying now, I don’t like to have to hit ladies.”
Crane nearly laughed at that.
Those two, ladies? Nightwing would be better off calling the Tranny that worked a near-by street corner a lady before those two, and that was a fact that they readily endorsed themselves. They were far from ladies, and the very idea that Nightwing was calling them such made him want to laugh.
But he didn’t.
Instead he focused on getting the loops of wire untangled from around his legs, pants, and boots; so that he could once again take the opening he was being given and flee back to the Nest. He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. His nails and long fingers worked far better than the girls gave him credit for anyways.
But the sound of whimpering was enough for him to snap his head up in the fight’s direction as he saw his Hench once again catch the vigilante upside the head and send him careening into the wall forcefully, the man sliding down it almost pathetically as he held himself in pain. Jonathan wondered if the man was even still conscious enough to know he was making pain-filled noises, but then doubted it when his bodyguard gave one finally kick to his midsection before turning back towards him, stooping down to help him without a word.
Someone was definitely not in a very good mood.
He doubted either woman would be for a while.
--
What he’d forgotten to take into account was how much of a mood the utter breaking of his companion would put the Batman into when he finally found him in the alleyway a long time after they’d disappeared into the night for good. Not that he expected any sort of emotion but anger and ferociousness out of the Bat in the first place, but something about the hurting of his pupils did something to the man’s already unstable bat-brain.
And here he thought that his own injured employees had been pissed upon returning to the Nest.
At least Colin was staying with Doctor Chimera this evening, and hadn’t returned to the Nest with them, otherwise he’d have been witness to the utter carnage that lay waste to the inside of the hide-out. And that was before the Bat had gotten there. It was a known fact that the use of the Toxin had rather…interesting side-effects on the women in his employment. He knew that it –for lack of better terms- often made them randy and utterly violet in their wake of rampaging emotions. He knew very well the outcomes of such things, as he was often the focus of the emotions.
What he didn’t know was just how embarrassing it was to be caught in the middle of such acts when the Bat came barreling through the sky-light and flimsy roof, followed by a worse-for-wear Nightwing.
Needless to say, they were the talk of Arkham for nearly three weeks before something else came up.
It was a long three weeks.
Continuity: Fall of 2016
Gain
Herbert West was not the kind of person to be caught dead inside a laundry mat wearing what he was wearing now. In fact, he was the sort of man that normally wore a collared shirt, a simple black tie, and black dress slacks to everything every day of his life. (He liked consistency. Well, that and he couldn’t be bothered with the subject that was clothing when there was work to be done in his lab.) However, on this fall day in the middle of October, he would have to brave the world and venture out into the open to do his laundry at the local Suds N’ Stuff since his last presentable outfit had been…contaminated in last night’s experiments.
He didn’t want to think about the fact that it, meaning the laundry, had escaped his notice for more than two weeks now. The mountain of bloodied, dead bodied shirts, pants, and ties mounding up outside the doorway to his laboratory failed to catch his interests when he was making break through research in his reagent. It didn’t fail to escape his notice though when he was covered head to toe in gore after dealing with a less than co-operable test subject he’d fished out of the Gotham City Morgue earlier that evening.
Currently that’s where he was at, his new base of operations being in the less than reparable Gotham City. He’d been drawn here after the last incident in Arkham, Massachusetts. The whole deal with the Miskatonic Massacre hadn’t done much for his reputation or his public standing there, and as a result he was forced to seek out an alternate city in which to relocate to. This one had seemed just as good as any other, if not better for the fact that the chemical trafficking here seemed to operate more on the basis of “don’t-ask-don’t-tell” than anywhere else. How could he pass an opportunity like that up without further investigation?
He was a scientist after all.
And so here he found himself, working at the Gotham City Morgue by day under the operative name of Herbert Jules; arm’s length deep in cadavers that no one would miss. (He could be rid of his last name if necessary, as well as the suspended medical license, but something about his first name couldn’t be replaced. It was a part of him now.) That was the great thing about a mob ruled town: there were hundreds of John Does and Jane Does every day with no one to claim them. So when he’d work late at night he’d just sort of…misplace one. No one ever asked questions, not here, not in Gotham.
So he’d gone days into his research, working during the daylight hours on his own private studies and then turning around to work the morgue in the evenings so that he could further procure his daytime activities. He was holed up in a basement apartment somewhere in the Narrows, a place no one cared about, his work perfectly safe from prying police eyes. It was a good thing no one here looked twice at you too; otherwise they’d have seen him in a very vulnerable, very uncomfortable position.
His daily attire never consisted of gym shorts and a plain white t-shirt.
Grumbling, he pushed the little door to the Suds N’ Stuff with his back as he walked in backwards, laundry basket filled to the brim with a laundry bag, ahem, trash bag used to conceal his less-than-reputable-stained clothing. Thankfully there was no one inside to see him as he shoved bloodied, organ covered shirts and pants into their separate washing machines. (Yes, even he knew that whites were a separate load than darks.) His ties…well, most of them were un-savable anyways. They were cheap, plain black ties that were easily replaced. Good thing too.
Quickly he tried to turn around, only to run head long into a toweringly thin man who he hadn’t seen behind him. The laundry basket flew out of his hands and landed upset on the floor, he himself soon joining it in his pitiful attempts to remain standing. The other man, however, merely glared haughtily down at Herbert before continue with his own laundry basket to a large washing machine near the ones that Herbert had silently claimed as his own. He would remain from growling, but Herbert sent a rather nasty glare in the man’s back as he replaced his glasses and once again gathered his soiled laundry for washing.
Thankfully the two men were the only ones in the small laundry mat, giving Herbert an increasingly good chance that no one would see the results of his experiments. And, if the other man happened to see them, well, he could always be dealt with accordingly. He was taller than Herbert, but just as thin and sinewy as he was, so his chances were increased in a fight. But the daunting black eye he sported didn’t encourage him to start anything unless absolutely necessary.
Swiftly he stuffed the large load of red, pink, and white shirts into the industrial size machine before inserting bleach, detergent, his quarters silently, and hitting start. As it hummed to life, he moved to the one directly next to it and repeated the process with his pants, totally unaware of the fact that the taller man with a hawk-like nose and large glasses was watching him while stuffing his own laundry into the machine hastily. After he was sure that no one was watching, he wrapped the grimy trash bag around his hand several times, wrapping it into a tight little ball, before pealing it off his hand and throwing it away in the large waste basket between two dryers.
Now all he could do was wait.
--
Jonathan Crane wasn’t the sort of man who wanted to wander down to the laundry mat clad in nothing more than a pair of grey jogging pants and an over sized black t-shirt. It wasn’t like the clothing was really his anyways. It was more that he’d lifted it from whoever owned the apartment before he’d gotten there, an accurate if not slightly false statement. It wasn’t his fault if they’d been unable to take the hint and leave before the Fear Toxin had been produced. Now they were just one ranting patient of fear and a rotting corpse somewhere in the depths of the Gotham River.
The Narrows really did have their advantages after all, and he could attest to it.
He would have worn his favored dress shirt and slacks out into Gotham had he not gotten the very last set he currently had ruined by a crazed test patient earlier that morning. (Almost four this morning in actuality, but that was just splitting hairs.) Now he found himself in the Suds N’ Stuff with his costume and several conspicuous loads of mysteriously stained dress clothing stuffed in a dark colored laundry bag he’d found in the same closet as the clothing he now wore.
If that wasn’t bad enough, he was out in the middle of the day thinking that no one would be out and about while he did the necessary deed that came hand in hand with good hygiene, when a short, dark haired man came barreling through the door backwards and ran straight into him. He had about knocked him to the ground! At least he, the Scarecrow, had enough grace and poise to remain standing while the shorter man went sprawling, his laundry basket hitting the ground with a solid ‘thud!’ and the sound of glass meeting tile as black framed spectacles got to know the linoleum. Jonathan just glared at him as he continued on to the industrial sized washing machine, his nose in the air.
That was after he noticed that the man’s laundry basket had a large, black plastic garbage bag lining it with a brimming load of what could only be laundry. Now, being the psychologist he was, Jonathan couldn’t help but watch out of his peripheral vision as the smaller man finally came up next to him and set his basket down. He opened the drawstring garbage back hastily and started throwing shirt after shirt into the large machine. The strange thing was that most of the shirts were white with overlarge red, brown, and chunky splotches on them. Jonathan refused to believe that he worked in an Italian restaurant.
As soon as he’d loaded the first one and set it into a whirl of motion, the younger man moved to the next one to repeat the process. This one though was filled with a number of dark colored trousers, some with noticeable brown patches on the fronts of them. This piqued his interest for sure, so carefully he continued to watch as he too set his machine into life. The younger man didn’t seem to notice that he was being watched. He could only hope that the mystery man with large framed glasses wasn’t secretly watching him, or the laundry he’d just loaded into the machine in front of him.
He was fairly sure that he had noticed the black eye the Bat had given him a few nights prior.
--
Neither man spoke to the other as their separate machines roared to life in the silence of the dimly lit laundry mat, their minds somewhere in the recesses of their own research. Thankfully Herbert had brought with him his research notes and small hard-covered journal that he used to record the newest findings in his project. (He liked this sort and had used them for the last few books he’d already filled up.) Unfortunately he couldn’t listen to his recordings that he’d made last night without risking the man adjacent to him hearing it. So he’d settled for dictating what he’d committed to memory and jaunting side notes in the margins on previous cases.
Jonathan had had a similar idea.
He too had out a shabby bound notebook, furiously taking notes in it, but it wasn’t about his research. These notes were about the man across the room from him, nose buried into a stuffed notebook as he scrawled out furiously in the margins with a taped up pencil he’d pulled from his gym shorts pocket. His unusual behavior, along with his grotesque clothing, had caught more than a feigned interest in the passing ex-psychologist, and now he was observing him as he recorded something on the paper of his notebook.
Even when the on-duty laundry owner, a small Chinese woman with graying hair and large coke-bottle spectacles, shuffled back in to turn on the TV did the two men lift their heads up to meet anyone’s gaze but the notebook they were each scribbling furiously in. Jonathan taking notes about the man across the room, and Herbert dictating to himself mentally about some odd experiment a week prior, both wrapped up completely in their own research. The little old woman smiled fondly at the two blurs in her mat and returned to the back room, bell tinkling lightly as she exited.
--
Herbert knew he was being watched by the other man in the room. He’d felt his eyes watching him ever since he’d loaded the machine next to him, his vision not focused directly on him, but watching him out of the corner of his eyes. He may be oblivious most of the time, but he rarely missed when someone was watching him this closely…especially when they were giving his research notes odd looks before furiously scribbling in their own notebook.
Could it be that this man recognized him from the news reports almost six months prior?
They hadn’t been running in a while now, since he’d disappeared from the mental hospital they’d stashed him in after the little incident they’d felt needed the label ‘massacre’ back in Massachusetts. However, he was fairly sure that that incident had made the evening news in more than just in his home state, so it was a possibility that he’d been recognized by this hawk-gazed man who was watching him extremely close.
But he couldn’t let the other know that he realized the gravity of the situation since it was possible he’d report him, and then he’d have to go on the run yet again. He didn’t feel like doing that, not when he’d just gotten his lab all set up and organized once more. Plus, his reagent was almost in the final stages before recombination. He couldn’t afford to leave all that behind simply because someone had recognized him.
The washing machine dinged and Herbert got up to switch over his clothing.
--
Jonathan Crane knew better than to be fooled.
When the man got up to switch over his clothing, he caught the calculating glare out of the corner of the large framed glasses as he passed. He was almost looking into Jonathan’s core, sizing up his wealth and necessity to live. He clearly now knew that he was being watched. Blast, his notes were just getting good too. Jonathan had speculated a list of fears the timid, quite man could possibly have and had started designing theories to test it when his own machine dinged and he rose to find the man already turning back to his table and notes.
Maybe the smaller man would make a useful test subject sooner than he’d expected.
Jonathan was careful with all his laundry, feeling a set of eyes digging into his back as he balled up his mask and costume components and shoved them rapidly into the dryer directly next to his machine. That’s why he’d chosen this machine, for the short distance between the washer and the dryer. That gave less of a chance of someone to realize who he was and just exactly what he was washing.
With a few more pilfered quarters his dryer whirled off into life and he returned to his seat hesitantly, avoiding eye contact with the man across the room, who was now facing away from him. He was clearly trying to shield whatever he was working on from Jonathan’s prying eyes, making his curiosity spark even more. What was he working on that was so secretive? He’d definitely have to follow this man out.
--
After about an hour all three of the dryers buzzed to let their respective users know that their clothing was dry and ready for transport. Each man got up and quickly loaded their baskets with their clothes, not bothering to fold them in their haste to escape the other’s presence.
Unfortunately for Jonathan, Herbert was much quicker and quieter than he’d been given credit for, and he slipped out of the Suds N’ Stuff without another scuffling noise, into the blackness that made up Gotham City’s back alleyways. Professor Crane cursed his unfortunate luck and continued to stuff his costume and clothing back into the bag in his basket before rounding on the door and strolling out with a faint tingling of a doorway chime.
Now all he had to do was get back to his hide-out without a Bat incident and he’d be scot free until his next shipment of chemicals was due to come in.
The sound of his feet striking the pavement was the only sound that echoed out in the dimly lit streets as he continued his trek, his basket under one arm and his lone canister of Fear Toxin clutched tightly in the other. He never went anywhere unarmed, not even the laundry mat. He had to be prepared for the surprise appearance that the Batman always seemed to make when he least expected it.
He heard the foot falls only as he was roughly shoved into an alleyway and pressed up against the dank and dirty wall at the back of it, his laundry basket falling into a pile of bagged garbage with a harsh plastic sound. He instinctively raised his canister of toxin and pointed it at his attackers face as he felt the faintest of pricks against the skin in his neck, causing him to stop. A cool and even voice rang out in the darkness of the alleyway.
“Who are you? Why are you following me?” it demanded, shoving him into the wall again. “If you scream I’ll kill you. The serum in this needle is more potent than my others, and is in a higher concentrated dose. The living don’t do much living afterward, I assure you.”
Jonathan blinked before retaliating nastily.
“Who are you to follow me? I could kill you with one spray of this canister!” he threatened, shoving the silver capsule under the man’s nose. “Not even the Bat would be able to recognize you after this is through.”
“The Bat? What do I care for some rodent with wings when it is you who should be afraid?” the man shoved him again, the jabbing of the needle skimming his neck again as they were shoved backwards farther into the faint light from the street. “Now, why were you watching me?”
Jonathan squinted in the light as he caught site of the same black framed glasses from the laundry mat, the smaller man behind them now the one with a needle full of a luminescent green substance pressed into his neck threateningly. He wasn’t sure who the man was, but clearly he didn’t know who he was either, which indicated that he wasn’t from Gotham and that he hadn’t been in town long enough to realize a Rogue when he met one, let alone not know who the Batman was. The very absurdity of this made Jonathan give a sharp bark of laughter.
“You’re very cocky for someone who isn’t from Gotham. I wonder what you have in that notebook of yours, Mr.?” He started, asking the man’s identity. The suspense was killing him, literally and figuratively.
The man with the large glasses looked suspicious at first, but eased off slightly to give Jonathan some breathing room. He didn’t, however, remove the needle from its spot against his jugular vein, so Jonathan in turn didn’t remove his toxin canister from inches near the man’s face.
“West, Dr. Herbert West. And you are?” he nodded in Jonathan’s direction, glasses slipping off his nose slightly.
“Dr. Jonathan Crane.” He responded coolly. The man didn’t bat an eye, clearly not recognizing the name. What a coincidence, he didn’t know the other man either.
“It doesn’t matter what’s in my notebook, Dr. Crane, or who I am. All I want to know is why were you watching me? I’ve done nothing to you that I know of, so you have no possible means for such an act.”
“I was studying you Dr. West. That’s what I do.” He smiled ominously. “Your clothing was incredibly interesting, as was you behavior and your mysterious notebook. I was merely observing you as you worked.”
“I see. I want those notes please, as well as your notebook. Once I have them I’ll be on my way and you can return to wherever it is you come from Dr. Crane.” He released his shirt front and extended his hand, the needle never moving from his pulse point. “Now, if you please, hand over the notebook.”
Jonathan did so, knowing that once the man saw the frantic scribbling of the chemistry compounds, the costume designs, and fear notes that he’d know he was dealing with a Rogue. But not any Rogue, the Scarecrow, Master of Fear, to be precise. This Dr. West was in for a rude awakening once he realized who he was messing with, mysterious glowing compound or not.
As predicted, Herbert flipped through it, saw the working notes and compounds, and immediately paled more than he already was. By now he was as white as his shirt, a dim look of realization passing over his face. He looked up at Crane, to the canister he was holding, back to his notes, and up to him once more just for good measure.
“Who are you?” He asked again, throwing the notebook back behind him swiftly. “You’re not just a normal citizen are you?”
“No, I’m not. And neither are you.” The smirk continued to gleam in the dull light, shining out of his icy blue eyes with a fierceness that stunned many people. West didn’t seem to be effected. “Who are you?”
“You’re a Rogue, aren’t you? I should have known by the odd costume you tossed into the machine earlier. I was going to ignore it though and go on my way until you decided to invade my privacy.” His calculative glare was back now as he slowly released Crane, ignoring the man’s earlier question of identity. “Which one are you?”
“Quite observant Dr. West, I’m impressed.” Replied Jonathan as he dusted off imaginary dirt from the borrowed clothing he wore before sweeping into a flourishing bow. “I’m Dr. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, Master of Fear.”
Herbert West nodded swiftly before pocketing the syringe and turning around to retrieve the discarded notebook. Carefully he picked it up and opened it, locating the pages with detailed profile notes and theories on him and ripping them out. After he was sure he had all of them, he handed the notebook back to Jonathan and began to leave. When he got to the mouth of the alleyway he paused and turned back around slightly, a scowl on his face.
“I don’t have to worry about you going to the authorities, Dr. Crane, so I’ll let you return to your work unharmed as long as you keep my appearance and identity to yourself. I trust that you can do that?” Jonathan nodded, although he scowled in return. “Good. Then I’ll bid you good night Dr. Crane, and good-bye.”
Herbert West whirled around before starting out of the alley once more, only getting a few feet before Jonathan’s voice rang out in the darkness. His tone was authoritative, sharp, demanding.
“You didn’t answer my question Dr. West.” Called Jonathan, making the small man’s figure stop mid stride although he didn’t turn back around. “Who are you besides Dr. Herbert West?”
“The Re-Animator.”
And Herbert West was gone, leaving only the slightest scent of Gain in his wake.
Last Edited: September 4, 2009
He didn’t want to think about the fact that it, meaning the laundry, had escaped his notice for more than two weeks now. The mountain of bloodied, dead bodied shirts, pants, and ties mounding up outside the doorway to his laboratory failed to catch his interests when he was making break through research in his reagent. It didn’t fail to escape his notice though when he was covered head to toe in gore after dealing with a less than co-operable test subject he’d fished out of the Gotham City Morgue earlier that evening.
Currently that’s where he was at, his new base of operations being in the less than reparable Gotham City. He’d been drawn here after the last incident in Arkham, Massachusetts. The whole deal with the Miskatonic Massacre hadn’t done much for his reputation or his public standing there, and as a result he was forced to seek out an alternate city in which to relocate to. This one had seemed just as good as any other, if not better for the fact that the chemical trafficking here seemed to operate more on the basis of “don’t-ask-don’t-tell” than anywhere else. How could he pass an opportunity like that up without further investigation?
He was a scientist after all.
And so here he found himself, working at the Gotham City Morgue by day under the operative name of Herbert Jules; arm’s length deep in cadavers that no one would miss. (He could be rid of his last name if necessary, as well as the suspended medical license, but something about his first name couldn’t be replaced. It was a part of him now.) That was the great thing about a mob ruled town: there were hundreds of John Does and Jane Does every day with no one to claim them. So when he’d work late at night he’d just sort of…misplace one. No one ever asked questions, not here, not in Gotham.
So he’d gone days into his research, working during the daylight hours on his own private studies and then turning around to work the morgue in the evenings so that he could further procure his daytime activities. He was holed up in a basement apartment somewhere in the Narrows, a place no one cared about, his work perfectly safe from prying police eyes. It was a good thing no one here looked twice at you too; otherwise they’d have seen him in a very vulnerable, very uncomfortable position.
His daily attire never consisted of gym shorts and a plain white t-shirt.
Grumbling, he pushed the little door to the Suds N’ Stuff with his back as he walked in backwards, laundry basket filled to the brim with a laundry bag, ahem, trash bag used to conceal his less-than-reputable-stained clothing. Thankfully there was no one inside to see him as he shoved bloodied, organ covered shirts and pants into their separate washing machines. (Yes, even he knew that whites were a separate load than darks.) His ties…well, most of them were un-savable anyways. They were cheap, plain black ties that were easily replaced. Good thing too.
Quickly he tried to turn around, only to run head long into a toweringly thin man who he hadn’t seen behind him. The laundry basket flew out of his hands and landed upset on the floor, he himself soon joining it in his pitiful attempts to remain standing. The other man, however, merely glared haughtily down at Herbert before continue with his own laundry basket to a large washing machine near the ones that Herbert had silently claimed as his own. He would remain from growling, but Herbert sent a rather nasty glare in the man’s back as he replaced his glasses and once again gathered his soiled laundry for washing.
Thankfully the two men were the only ones in the small laundry mat, giving Herbert an increasingly good chance that no one would see the results of his experiments. And, if the other man happened to see them, well, he could always be dealt with accordingly. He was taller than Herbert, but just as thin and sinewy as he was, so his chances were increased in a fight. But the daunting black eye he sported didn’t encourage him to start anything unless absolutely necessary.
Swiftly he stuffed the large load of red, pink, and white shirts into the industrial size machine before inserting bleach, detergent, his quarters silently, and hitting start. As it hummed to life, he moved to the one directly next to it and repeated the process with his pants, totally unaware of the fact that the taller man with a hawk-like nose and large glasses was watching him while stuffing his own laundry into the machine hastily. After he was sure that no one was watching, he wrapped the grimy trash bag around his hand several times, wrapping it into a tight little ball, before pealing it off his hand and throwing it away in the large waste basket between two dryers.
Now all he could do was wait.
--
Jonathan Crane wasn’t the sort of man who wanted to wander down to the laundry mat clad in nothing more than a pair of grey jogging pants and an over sized black t-shirt. It wasn’t like the clothing was really his anyways. It was more that he’d lifted it from whoever owned the apartment before he’d gotten there, an accurate if not slightly false statement. It wasn’t his fault if they’d been unable to take the hint and leave before the Fear Toxin had been produced. Now they were just one ranting patient of fear and a rotting corpse somewhere in the depths of the Gotham River.
The Narrows really did have their advantages after all, and he could attest to it.
He would have worn his favored dress shirt and slacks out into Gotham had he not gotten the very last set he currently had ruined by a crazed test patient earlier that morning. (Almost four this morning in actuality, but that was just splitting hairs.) Now he found himself in the Suds N’ Stuff with his costume and several conspicuous loads of mysteriously stained dress clothing stuffed in a dark colored laundry bag he’d found in the same closet as the clothing he now wore.
If that wasn’t bad enough, he was out in the middle of the day thinking that no one would be out and about while he did the necessary deed that came hand in hand with good hygiene, when a short, dark haired man came barreling through the door backwards and ran straight into him. He had about knocked him to the ground! At least he, the Scarecrow, had enough grace and poise to remain standing while the shorter man went sprawling, his laundry basket hitting the ground with a solid ‘thud!’ and the sound of glass meeting tile as black framed spectacles got to know the linoleum. Jonathan just glared at him as he continued on to the industrial sized washing machine, his nose in the air.
That was after he noticed that the man’s laundry basket had a large, black plastic garbage bag lining it with a brimming load of what could only be laundry. Now, being the psychologist he was, Jonathan couldn’t help but watch out of his peripheral vision as the smaller man finally came up next to him and set his basket down. He opened the drawstring garbage back hastily and started throwing shirt after shirt into the large machine. The strange thing was that most of the shirts were white with overlarge red, brown, and chunky splotches on them. Jonathan refused to believe that he worked in an Italian restaurant.
As soon as he’d loaded the first one and set it into a whirl of motion, the younger man moved to the next one to repeat the process. This one though was filled with a number of dark colored trousers, some with noticeable brown patches on the fronts of them. This piqued his interest for sure, so carefully he continued to watch as he too set his machine into life. The younger man didn’t seem to notice that he was being watched. He could only hope that the mystery man with large framed glasses wasn’t secretly watching him, or the laundry he’d just loaded into the machine in front of him.
He was fairly sure that he had noticed the black eye the Bat had given him a few nights prior.
--
Neither man spoke to the other as their separate machines roared to life in the silence of the dimly lit laundry mat, their minds somewhere in the recesses of their own research. Thankfully Herbert had brought with him his research notes and small hard-covered journal that he used to record the newest findings in his project. (He liked this sort and had used them for the last few books he’d already filled up.) Unfortunately he couldn’t listen to his recordings that he’d made last night without risking the man adjacent to him hearing it. So he’d settled for dictating what he’d committed to memory and jaunting side notes in the margins on previous cases.
Jonathan had had a similar idea.
He too had out a shabby bound notebook, furiously taking notes in it, but it wasn’t about his research. These notes were about the man across the room from him, nose buried into a stuffed notebook as he scrawled out furiously in the margins with a taped up pencil he’d pulled from his gym shorts pocket. His unusual behavior, along with his grotesque clothing, had caught more than a feigned interest in the passing ex-psychologist, and now he was observing him as he recorded something on the paper of his notebook.
Even when the on-duty laundry owner, a small Chinese woman with graying hair and large coke-bottle spectacles, shuffled back in to turn on the TV did the two men lift their heads up to meet anyone’s gaze but the notebook they were each scribbling furiously in. Jonathan taking notes about the man across the room, and Herbert dictating to himself mentally about some odd experiment a week prior, both wrapped up completely in their own research. The little old woman smiled fondly at the two blurs in her mat and returned to the back room, bell tinkling lightly as she exited.
--
Herbert knew he was being watched by the other man in the room. He’d felt his eyes watching him ever since he’d loaded the machine next to him, his vision not focused directly on him, but watching him out of the corner of his eyes. He may be oblivious most of the time, but he rarely missed when someone was watching him this closely…especially when they were giving his research notes odd looks before furiously scribbling in their own notebook.
Could it be that this man recognized him from the news reports almost six months prior?
They hadn’t been running in a while now, since he’d disappeared from the mental hospital they’d stashed him in after the little incident they’d felt needed the label ‘massacre’ back in Massachusetts. However, he was fairly sure that that incident had made the evening news in more than just in his home state, so it was a possibility that he’d been recognized by this hawk-gazed man who was watching him extremely close.
But he couldn’t let the other know that he realized the gravity of the situation since it was possible he’d report him, and then he’d have to go on the run yet again. He didn’t feel like doing that, not when he’d just gotten his lab all set up and organized once more. Plus, his reagent was almost in the final stages before recombination. He couldn’t afford to leave all that behind simply because someone had recognized him.
The washing machine dinged and Herbert got up to switch over his clothing.
--
Jonathan Crane knew better than to be fooled.
When the man got up to switch over his clothing, he caught the calculating glare out of the corner of the large framed glasses as he passed. He was almost looking into Jonathan’s core, sizing up his wealth and necessity to live. He clearly now knew that he was being watched. Blast, his notes were just getting good too. Jonathan had speculated a list of fears the timid, quite man could possibly have and had started designing theories to test it when his own machine dinged and he rose to find the man already turning back to his table and notes.
Maybe the smaller man would make a useful test subject sooner than he’d expected.
Jonathan was careful with all his laundry, feeling a set of eyes digging into his back as he balled up his mask and costume components and shoved them rapidly into the dryer directly next to his machine. That’s why he’d chosen this machine, for the short distance between the washer and the dryer. That gave less of a chance of someone to realize who he was and just exactly what he was washing.
With a few more pilfered quarters his dryer whirled off into life and he returned to his seat hesitantly, avoiding eye contact with the man across the room, who was now facing away from him. He was clearly trying to shield whatever he was working on from Jonathan’s prying eyes, making his curiosity spark even more. What was he working on that was so secretive? He’d definitely have to follow this man out.
--
After about an hour all three of the dryers buzzed to let their respective users know that their clothing was dry and ready for transport. Each man got up and quickly loaded their baskets with their clothes, not bothering to fold them in their haste to escape the other’s presence.
Unfortunately for Jonathan, Herbert was much quicker and quieter than he’d been given credit for, and he slipped out of the Suds N’ Stuff without another scuffling noise, into the blackness that made up Gotham City’s back alleyways. Professor Crane cursed his unfortunate luck and continued to stuff his costume and clothing back into the bag in his basket before rounding on the door and strolling out with a faint tingling of a doorway chime.
Now all he had to do was get back to his hide-out without a Bat incident and he’d be scot free until his next shipment of chemicals was due to come in.
The sound of his feet striking the pavement was the only sound that echoed out in the dimly lit streets as he continued his trek, his basket under one arm and his lone canister of Fear Toxin clutched tightly in the other. He never went anywhere unarmed, not even the laundry mat. He had to be prepared for the surprise appearance that the Batman always seemed to make when he least expected it.
He heard the foot falls only as he was roughly shoved into an alleyway and pressed up against the dank and dirty wall at the back of it, his laundry basket falling into a pile of bagged garbage with a harsh plastic sound. He instinctively raised his canister of toxin and pointed it at his attackers face as he felt the faintest of pricks against the skin in his neck, causing him to stop. A cool and even voice rang out in the darkness of the alleyway.
“Who are you? Why are you following me?” it demanded, shoving him into the wall again. “If you scream I’ll kill you. The serum in this needle is more potent than my others, and is in a higher concentrated dose. The living don’t do much living afterward, I assure you.”
Jonathan blinked before retaliating nastily.
“Who are you to follow me? I could kill you with one spray of this canister!” he threatened, shoving the silver capsule under the man’s nose. “Not even the Bat would be able to recognize you after this is through.”
“The Bat? What do I care for some rodent with wings when it is you who should be afraid?” the man shoved him again, the jabbing of the needle skimming his neck again as they were shoved backwards farther into the faint light from the street. “Now, why were you watching me?”
Jonathan squinted in the light as he caught site of the same black framed glasses from the laundry mat, the smaller man behind them now the one with a needle full of a luminescent green substance pressed into his neck threateningly. He wasn’t sure who the man was, but clearly he didn’t know who he was either, which indicated that he wasn’t from Gotham and that he hadn’t been in town long enough to realize a Rogue when he met one, let alone not know who the Batman was. The very absurdity of this made Jonathan give a sharp bark of laughter.
“You’re very cocky for someone who isn’t from Gotham. I wonder what you have in that notebook of yours, Mr.?” He started, asking the man’s identity. The suspense was killing him, literally and figuratively.
The man with the large glasses looked suspicious at first, but eased off slightly to give Jonathan some breathing room. He didn’t, however, remove the needle from its spot against his jugular vein, so Jonathan in turn didn’t remove his toxin canister from inches near the man’s face.
“West, Dr. Herbert West. And you are?” he nodded in Jonathan’s direction, glasses slipping off his nose slightly.
“Dr. Jonathan Crane.” He responded coolly. The man didn’t bat an eye, clearly not recognizing the name. What a coincidence, he didn’t know the other man either.
“It doesn’t matter what’s in my notebook, Dr. Crane, or who I am. All I want to know is why were you watching me? I’ve done nothing to you that I know of, so you have no possible means for such an act.”
“I was studying you Dr. West. That’s what I do.” He smiled ominously. “Your clothing was incredibly interesting, as was you behavior and your mysterious notebook. I was merely observing you as you worked.”
“I see. I want those notes please, as well as your notebook. Once I have them I’ll be on my way and you can return to wherever it is you come from Dr. Crane.” He released his shirt front and extended his hand, the needle never moving from his pulse point. “Now, if you please, hand over the notebook.”
Jonathan did so, knowing that once the man saw the frantic scribbling of the chemistry compounds, the costume designs, and fear notes that he’d know he was dealing with a Rogue. But not any Rogue, the Scarecrow, Master of Fear, to be precise. This Dr. West was in for a rude awakening once he realized who he was messing with, mysterious glowing compound or not.
As predicted, Herbert flipped through it, saw the working notes and compounds, and immediately paled more than he already was. By now he was as white as his shirt, a dim look of realization passing over his face. He looked up at Crane, to the canister he was holding, back to his notes, and up to him once more just for good measure.
“Who are you?” He asked again, throwing the notebook back behind him swiftly. “You’re not just a normal citizen are you?”
“No, I’m not. And neither are you.” The smirk continued to gleam in the dull light, shining out of his icy blue eyes with a fierceness that stunned many people. West didn’t seem to be effected. “Who are you?”
“You’re a Rogue, aren’t you? I should have known by the odd costume you tossed into the machine earlier. I was going to ignore it though and go on my way until you decided to invade my privacy.” His calculative glare was back now as he slowly released Crane, ignoring the man’s earlier question of identity. “Which one are you?”
“Quite observant Dr. West, I’m impressed.” Replied Jonathan as he dusted off imaginary dirt from the borrowed clothing he wore before sweeping into a flourishing bow. “I’m Dr. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, Master of Fear.”
Herbert West nodded swiftly before pocketing the syringe and turning around to retrieve the discarded notebook. Carefully he picked it up and opened it, locating the pages with detailed profile notes and theories on him and ripping them out. After he was sure he had all of them, he handed the notebook back to Jonathan and began to leave. When he got to the mouth of the alleyway he paused and turned back around slightly, a scowl on his face.
“I don’t have to worry about you going to the authorities, Dr. Crane, so I’ll let you return to your work unharmed as long as you keep my appearance and identity to yourself. I trust that you can do that?” Jonathan nodded, although he scowled in return. “Good. Then I’ll bid you good night Dr. Crane, and good-bye.”
Herbert West whirled around before starting out of the alley once more, only getting a few feet before Jonathan’s voice rang out in the darkness. His tone was authoritative, sharp, demanding.
“You didn’t answer my question Dr. West.” Called Jonathan, making the small man’s figure stop mid stride although he didn’t turn back around. “Who are you besides Dr. Herbert West?”
“The Re-Animator.”
And Herbert West was gone, leaving only the slightest scent of Gain in his wake.
Last Edited: September 4, 2009
Absonditus Metus - Hidden Fear Part 3
He first saw her when walking to his Physics lecture on Tuesday morning.
Not that he'd known that he'd seen her, but he had seen her none the less.
It had been a relatively nice morning, cool and a bit breezy, but for late September in Gotham, that was nice weather. He'd worn his scarf, an article of clothing he never seemed to leave behind in this dreadfully bleak city, so that his neck would stay warm through the holes that lined his jacket's nape. The wind never seemed to die down when he was outside, and it was for that reason that he'd started taking the very path that he was on now. At least the trees blocked a bit of the weather out, if only just a fraction.
It wasn't really bothersome anymore, just habit really that he'd started walking through the park-like side of campus during this time, ever since the wind had picked up and the fall season had slowly progressed further and further into the oncoming winter. The trees and shrubs blocked out a good portion of the elements, so keeping warm was easier for him in this element than it was on the hard cement walk ways and mental lined trails that littered campus. It also didn't hurt that he found the odd trees and the foliage calming and beautiful.
And besides him, there were few others around now.
Jonathan knew that others were aware of his…antisocial tendencies and often times odd behavior. He was perfectly fine with that, actually, since it allowed him space and time to himself, as well as significant breaks from the bullying intentions of his roommate and his idiotic friends. (Lance Hastings and his jock friends never saw fit to give him even a moments bit of reprieve, and Greg, his other roommate, could only be there to stop so much.) It was for this reason that he often didn't stick his neck out, in a manner of speaking, to talk to other people in his classes. In the end, they were more than likely to reject him anyways.
In fact, if someone were to ask him about it, he would have responded with his common cold glare, which, of course, meant he was beyond content and overly ecstatic at the prospect of a night alone to scourer the library's contents. Alone…all alone, even when he'd made the taxing effort to befriend others; and still walking to school by himself. It couldn't be any better than that, not in his opinion.
Until the noises started, that is.
They were low at first, just a soft murmur of movement and noise within the branches above his head, something he could pass off as a squirrel or a figment of his recently over active imagination. But as he continued to walk, his ratty bag swung over his shoulders tightly, he could hear them grow louder…and closer. And even if he wanted to ignore them he could not, because they were familiar to him, so ingrained into his brain that he was quite sure he'd never forget them. No, these noises weren't a figment of his brain…and they weren't pleasant.
Because he knew what they were.
He'd always know what they were…
A flock of birds…very large ones too, if the noises were anything to go by.
But he couldn't stop here, no, not in the center of the potential flock of birds that was threatening him unseen from the tree tops above him. He couldn't stop somewhere he had no control, no say, no defense. It would not end like it had so many times in Georgia…he would not allow it. He'd beaten it there, and he was going to beat it here too. Birds be damned.
So he increased his pace swiftly, feet striking semi-damp pavement in the early September morning, wanting nothing more than to be someplace else on campus…his room even, with or without Lance or Greg. Bullies he could deal with, had dealt with, but birds…he'd never really been able to face them before. At least, not out in the open like this. Not with a fighting, or in this case running, chance.
Not that he'd ever gotten the chance, because at the exact moment that he started to move along the path again, something large and dark swooped down towards him, aiming itself directly at his face. Whatever it was took firm hold of his glasses in its passing arc and stripped his face of them, leaving him temporarily blind and more that a bit disoriented. He couldn't see much without those stupid things, as his vision was fuzzy at best, so he couldn't quite see the culprit or where they had gone too. But, he could hear clearly the sound of skittering, like bird's feet, across the pathway before him.
Jonathan froze as his eyes found the dark, blurred shaped blob on the path before him.
It was a bird…a rather large bird.
A bird that had his glasses.
He could faintly make out the glittering form of them as the bird moved, the lightly catching the large and round frames easily, as if mocking him. He was more than certain that whatever sort of avian pest this was, it was larger than a common sparrow or finch. No, this monster was at least the size of a parrot, if not larger…and he was fairly sure he wasn't exaggerating.
It was a large, dark bird then, with the Hell-bent intent of making his life a walking, living, breathing nightmare. Did the birds back home somehow migrate with him to Gotham? Certainly not! That was just…preposterous, right? No, Jonathan refused to believe that his brain had come up with such a childish explanation to an entirely common problem, and that this bird was out to get him. Normal birds didn't just attack people out of the blue and steal their glasses! In fact, he'd almost bet that the bird hadn't taken them, that it had nearly knocked them off his face and was now sitting by them. Yes, that was it…
So slowly he got down to his knees to pat about towards the bird, hoping to scar it off with his movements enough so that he could relocate and collect his glasses once more. But every time he seemed to get close to the bird, it'd hop backwards, taking the shiny form of what he thought were his spectacles with it. That flying feather duster had indeed taken his glasses!
"Give those back! I require them to see!" He snarled at the thing, trying anything within his limited, visionless power to do to get them back. But the bird didn't seem to want to release them.
He tried again.
"I said, give those back!" This time he followed through with a lunge after his shouting, which only seemed to get him a nice bed in the dirt and absolutely nothing to show for it. "Blast you, those are mine!"
But it didn't matter anymore what Jonathan had said, when he heard the cawing from around him in the bushes as well as the trees. They weren't alone anymore, and without the aid of his glasses, he most certainly couldn't see to defend himself.
Needless to say, he was out of the park faster that he'd have liked to have been, his face still without the adorning set of glasses it usually wore.
Not that he'd known that he'd seen her, but he had seen her none the less.
It had been a relatively nice morning, cool and a bit breezy, but for late September in Gotham, that was nice weather. He'd worn his scarf, an article of clothing he never seemed to leave behind in this dreadfully bleak city, so that his neck would stay warm through the holes that lined his jacket's nape. The wind never seemed to die down when he was outside, and it was for that reason that he'd started taking the very path that he was on now. At least the trees blocked a bit of the weather out, if only just a fraction.
It wasn't really bothersome anymore, just habit really that he'd started walking through the park-like side of campus during this time, ever since the wind had picked up and the fall season had slowly progressed further and further into the oncoming winter. The trees and shrubs blocked out a good portion of the elements, so keeping warm was easier for him in this element than it was on the hard cement walk ways and mental lined trails that littered campus. It also didn't hurt that he found the odd trees and the foliage calming and beautiful.
And besides him, there were few others around now.
Jonathan knew that others were aware of his…antisocial tendencies and often times odd behavior. He was perfectly fine with that, actually, since it allowed him space and time to himself, as well as significant breaks from the bullying intentions of his roommate and his idiotic friends. (Lance Hastings and his jock friends never saw fit to give him even a moments bit of reprieve, and Greg, his other roommate, could only be there to stop so much.) It was for this reason that he often didn't stick his neck out, in a manner of speaking, to talk to other people in his classes. In the end, they were more than likely to reject him anyways.
In fact, if someone were to ask him about it, he would have responded with his common cold glare, which, of course, meant he was beyond content and overly ecstatic at the prospect of a night alone to scourer the library's contents. Alone…all alone, even when he'd made the taxing effort to befriend others; and still walking to school by himself. It couldn't be any better than that, not in his opinion.
Until the noises started, that is.
They were low at first, just a soft murmur of movement and noise within the branches above his head, something he could pass off as a squirrel or a figment of his recently over active imagination. But as he continued to walk, his ratty bag swung over his shoulders tightly, he could hear them grow louder…and closer. And even if he wanted to ignore them he could not, because they were familiar to him, so ingrained into his brain that he was quite sure he'd never forget them. No, these noises weren't a figment of his brain…and they weren't pleasant.
Because he knew what they were.
He'd always know what they were…
A flock of birds…very large ones too, if the noises were anything to go by.
But he couldn't stop here, no, not in the center of the potential flock of birds that was threatening him unseen from the tree tops above him. He couldn't stop somewhere he had no control, no say, no defense. It would not end like it had so many times in Georgia…he would not allow it. He'd beaten it there, and he was going to beat it here too. Birds be damned.
So he increased his pace swiftly, feet striking semi-damp pavement in the early September morning, wanting nothing more than to be someplace else on campus…his room even, with or without Lance or Greg. Bullies he could deal with, had dealt with, but birds…he'd never really been able to face them before. At least, not out in the open like this. Not with a fighting, or in this case running, chance.
Not that he'd ever gotten the chance, because at the exact moment that he started to move along the path again, something large and dark swooped down towards him, aiming itself directly at his face. Whatever it was took firm hold of his glasses in its passing arc and stripped his face of them, leaving him temporarily blind and more that a bit disoriented. He couldn't see much without those stupid things, as his vision was fuzzy at best, so he couldn't quite see the culprit or where they had gone too. But, he could hear clearly the sound of skittering, like bird's feet, across the pathway before him.
Jonathan froze as his eyes found the dark, blurred shaped blob on the path before him.
It was a bird…a rather large bird.
A bird that had his glasses.
He could faintly make out the glittering form of them as the bird moved, the lightly catching the large and round frames easily, as if mocking him. He was more than certain that whatever sort of avian pest this was, it was larger than a common sparrow or finch. No, this monster was at least the size of a parrot, if not larger…and he was fairly sure he wasn't exaggerating.
It was a large, dark bird then, with the Hell-bent intent of making his life a walking, living, breathing nightmare. Did the birds back home somehow migrate with him to Gotham? Certainly not! That was just…preposterous, right? No, Jonathan refused to believe that his brain had come up with such a childish explanation to an entirely common problem, and that this bird was out to get him. Normal birds didn't just attack people out of the blue and steal their glasses! In fact, he'd almost bet that the bird hadn't taken them, that it had nearly knocked them off his face and was now sitting by them. Yes, that was it…
So slowly he got down to his knees to pat about towards the bird, hoping to scar it off with his movements enough so that he could relocate and collect his glasses once more. But every time he seemed to get close to the bird, it'd hop backwards, taking the shiny form of what he thought were his spectacles with it. That flying feather duster had indeed taken his glasses!
"Give those back! I require them to see!" He snarled at the thing, trying anything within his limited, visionless power to do to get them back. But the bird didn't seem to want to release them.
He tried again.
"I said, give those back!" This time he followed through with a lunge after his shouting, which only seemed to get him a nice bed in the dirt and absolutely nothing to show for it. "Blast you, those are mine!"
But it didn't matter anymore what Jonathan had said, when he heard the cawing from around him in the bushes as well as the trees. They weren't alone anymore, and without the aid of his glasses, he most certainly couldn't see to defend himself.
Needless to say, he was out of the park faster that he'd have liked to have been, his face still without the adorning set of glasses it usually wore.
Absonditus Metus - Hidden Fear Part 2
The bus ride had gone relatively undisturbed since the older man in the tweed jacket had gotten off, leaving Jonathan alone in his silent thoughts, swirls of books passages and quotes from an author he almost detested but loved all the same, swirling in his mind. He'd forgone reading the book since the man had left, unable to concentrate for longer than a few moments due to the drifting thoughts he'd gotten. Now he was examining the ends of his rather long scarf, one he'd picked up back in Georgia before he'd left from an elderly farm wife who probably mistook him for someone else going off to college.
But he'd accepted the gift none the less, his manners and self-preservation kicking in as he did so, even going so far as to put it on for her, regardless of the hot Georgia sun and temperature as it pressed in around him and his suffocating, stick like frame. It was a deep maroon color, something he'd never worn before, but the woman insisted was 'his color' or some such nonsense. Even now he was silently thankful for the forethought; especially since the weather was far cooler here then it had ever been at home, even during their winters.
And with what he'd seen so far since arriving here, it was only going to get colder in the months to come.
He was just hoping his sighs weren't getting increasingly audible. He was getting enough strange looks as it was, what with the way he was dressed and all…not to mention his luggage and the shabby condition it was in, much like his own self. All he really needed was yet another reason for people to run screaming in the other direction from him, not like they didn't already do that.
That thought alone made Jonathan's lips twitch in a smirk behind his scarf, which was now pulled up and secured around the lower part of his face, concealing his mouth and neck from the frigid air pouring in from the gap in the window on his left. At least they couldn't see him react to his own thoughts, or at least not that he could see from the spot he was in. It didn't matter anyways; his stop was coming up next, according to the map pasted above the cabin entrance.
Although he wasn't sure how to get the bus to work in his favor upon getting on it, he now knew how to stop it at his request simply by watching what others did around him. It was a simple trick he'd learned over the years, one that got him less punishment if he picked up on subtle things most people wouldn't watch or care about. (Things like what the bullies talked about in school, their facial expressions, how his Great Granny walked even. All indicators of something that could potentially be life threatening.) That's how he knew that going into Psychology was the right thing for him…
The dim bulb flickered briefly before flashing out as he pulled the cord that would get the bus to eventually stop, the squeal of breaks and the audible ding of an overused bell the only signal to his arrival to Gotham University.
Yes, Jonathan thought, it was going to be a good start to a brand new life.
But he'd accepted the gift none the less, his manners and self-preservation kicking in as he did so, even going so far as to put it on for her, regardless of the hot Georgia sun and temperature as it pressed in around him and his suffocating, stick like frame. It was a deep maroon color, something he'd never worn before, but the woman insisted was 'his color' or some such nonsense. Even now he was silently thankful for the forethought; especially since the weather was far cooler here then it had ever been at home, even during their winters.
And with what he'd seen so far since arriving here, it was only going to get colder in the months to come.
He was just hoping his sighs weren't getting increasingly audible. He was getting enough strange looks as it was, what with the way he was dressed and all…not to mention his luggage and the shabby condition it was in, much like his own self. All he really needed was yet another reason for people to run screaming in the other direction from him, not like they didn't already do that.
That thought alone made Jonathan's lips twitch in a smirk behind his scarf, which was now pulled up and secured around the lower part of his face, concealing his mouth and neck from the frigid air pouring in from the gap in the window on his left. At least they couldn't see him react to his own thoughts, or at least not that he could see from the spot he was in. It didn't matter anyways; his stop was coming up next, according to the map pasted above the cabin entrance.
Although he wasn't sure how to get the bus to work in his favor upon getting on it, he now knew how to stop it at his request simply by watching what others did around him. It was a simple trick he'd learned over the years, one that got him less punishment if he picked up on subtle things most people wouldn't watch or care about. (Things like what the bullies talked about in school, their facial expressions, how his Great Granny walked even. All indicators of something that could potentially be life threatening.) That's how he knew that going into Psychology was the right thing for him…
The dim bulb flickered briefly before flashing out as he pulled the cord that would get the bus to eventually stop, the squeal of breaks and the audible ding of an overused bell the only signal to his arrival to Gotham University.
Yes, Jonathan thought, it was going to be a good start to a brand new life.
Absonditus Metus - Hidden Fear Part 1
He'd come by train to Gotham City.
He'd come by train, and it had been a very long, very tiring ride.
Not that his life had been anything but long and tiring, mind you, but Jonathan Crane had found this trip far too long for his liking. This was the first time he'd ever even been out of Georgia, that he could remember, and he planned on never going back…if he could help it.
There was nothing for him back there, in that old decaying mansion that was no longer filled with anything more than rotting wood and dead memories. He'd sold off everything he could from the place, furniture, heirlooms, and valuables if they remained; anything that he could potentially use to get him as far away from his own personal Hell called Arlen, Georgia. That's how he'd found his records.
And why he was headed to Gotham City.
According to the paperwork and all the letters he'd found stashed in his Great Granny's personal writing desk in the corner of her now vacant bedroom, he was the illegitimate son of her great-grand daughter Karen and an elusive man by the name of Gerald Crane…who now worked as a construction manager in Gotham. (Secretly he'd tracked the man down, not that it was overly hard to do.) No surprise there, that he wasn't wanted, not with the way they had treated him all his life. Leaving him alone in that house with her for so long without so much as a word of contact…
What was a surprise was the fact that according to the return addresses on most of the letters and envelopes, most of his family was now located in Gotham or in the suburbs around it. So, that's where he'd planned on going, packing every little thing he owned and selling off everything he could for funding, including a lot of the books in the library.
This was why he now found himself on the Gotham train platform, his measly luggage in one hand, making his way towards the bus stop that would take him to the University. Hopefully it would be there soon, though by the looks of the other patrons waiting along-side him, he doubted that it was ever on time. That was okay, he had all night, and he was here nearly a week early anyways. It was a good thing that the Dean had approved his early arrival, otherwise he'd have had no place to stay. He really couldn't afford to live in a hotel for even a night, let alone an entire week.
It seemed like hours to him, before the bus came, when in reality it had only been forty-five minutes since they'd disembarked from the train. Forty-five long, drug out minutes, spent with him sitting on his luggage, an old book being leafed through as he tucked his scarf further around his long neck. It was only fall here in Gotham, but already the weather was turning cold, much colder then he'd ever felt before, and he didn't have the proper form of attire for such a chill climate. As soon as he came into some money, he'd have to find some decent used clothing, along with other things he'd need to survive here. If not, that he was more than certain he'd freeze to death in the process.
But this city wasn't completely without its charms, he reflected tiredly, no, not at all. It had numerous new libraries to discover and explore, shop upon shop of new and used books, clothing, anything he could think up, he was more than certain he could find. There were even shops for people just like him, people who had not much to live on but more than enough ambition to fuel themselves with. If only he had the money…
But he would, soon.
He'd be starting his new job at the college the day after his arrival, today, and would start looking around for another one for part time hours whenever they could give them to him. He could work and go to school, enough so to keep his head above water and partially out of debt...though he doubted it for long, but it couldn't hurt none the less. But every little bit helped, and so it was with growing confidence that Jonathan Crane boarded the overly late bus.
xXx
The ride started off peacefully enough, though Jonathan had never ridden public transit in his life, or a bus for that matter, before today, he hid his wonderment well. And though it reeked of human body odor and a multitude of other foul excrement, and there was a hobo sleeping on the last seat all the way in the back, Jonathan still found it fascinating. Overall, it sort of added to the charm of the city, which served to only douse his flickering flame of curiosity in gasoline.
Even the littlest of things would peak his interest. Like how the people would spread themselves out when presented with the option, or how those left without a spaced out seat would chose their chairs and partners carefully for transit. How they would weigh other people's worth based on few minute observations and a multitude of human stereotypes that he knew they all had. It was intriguing to watch the men find other male partners to sit near, while women sought out other women…and it was utterly attention grabbing.
So much so, that he didn't see the elderly man sit down next to him in the vacant outer seat in his queue. So much so that he didn't see the very man glance over at him and smile in pure mirth and joy at his wonderment, or how he removed his hat and set it in his lap before tucking the legal college-headed print paper into his jacket once more. He did, however, notice the man when Jonathan was promptly hit from one side when the bus lurched into motion, causing him to lose the tight grip he had on the book still in his hands. It went flying to the floor, only stopping to rest at the feet of the elderly man a seat away from him.
Jonathan's eyes fell to the floor as he bent down to retrieve it, mumbling his apologies as he went, his still southern accented voice sounding odd in the stuffy bus compartment, even too his ears. His cheeks were burning; he could feel them, just as much as he could feel the eyes of the older man watching him as he moved jerkily to the floor in a graceless bend. If only he hadn't been so careless to drop the book in the first place, then he wouldn't have had to open his mouth at all and let out that ridiculous sounding voice. It was the bane of his existence, much like his current monetary situation and the fact that he hadn't a clue in a world this big.
Jonathan tried to move quicker, but the man's hand beat him to the book.
Jonathan's eyes snapped up as the hand moved back, drawing his book with it, slowly moving up and towards the elderly man now clutching one of the very last few remaining possessions he carried with him from the manor. The man…the man had his book!
"Ghosts…now that's a name I haven't heard in a very long time." The man said fondly, turning the old and rather ragged book over in his hands. "And it is in good condition too. You must take very good care of this book."
The man smiled as Jonathan attempted to straighten himself out, long limbs awkward as he moved to face the man now holding his book, attempting to hold in a variety of feelings as they made their way across his mind and face. He narrowed bright blue eyes behind coke bottle frames taped at the bridge, trying desperately to figure out the motivation behind speaking to someone like him. Not even his own family wanted to do that… So then why did a man on a bus in a city he hadn't even been in for a day want to speak to him?
"I try to take very good care of my books." Jonathan decided to say finally, wincing at how his 'my' came out as 'mia' and his vowels far too long for his liking. Though he knew he was speaking quietly, he couldn't help but feel that everyone could hear him. "They're one of the few possessions I value above all else."
"Indeed, a good book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where man's mind can get both provocation and privacy." The man responded calmly, fingers moving over the spine gently as he looked the book over.
Jonathan paused.
"Edward P. Morgan, correct?" He asked, eyebrow arched at the quote the man had just presented him with. It wasn't an overly used one, or a favored author, but it was one he'd heard none the less.
"Brilliant, just brilliant son, and you are correct. I'm impressed, not many people are familiar with his work." The man's smile was enlightening and encouraging, as if he was truly proud. It made Jonathan feel just a bit warmer, if only just. "Tell me, what about this one? It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it."
"Oscar Wilde, of course." Jonathan said, a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth behind the scarf, just barely seen. "Though I haven't quite finished The Importance of Being Earnest just yet, I did read The Picture of Dorian Gray a few months back. His work is rather interesting, I must say."
"You will have to fix that, of course. Finishing the book, I mean." The man held out the book, eyes searching Jonathan's as his head rose to meet him finally, eyes hesitant but intrigued. "And don't worry about the accent, son, it will go away with time. Try not to worry about it too much. It isn't as noticeable as you think it is."
Jonathan could only nod as he accepted the book back, the smile dropping from the corners of his mouth as he turned his eyes away from the man's face at mention of his accent. He was trying too hard to control it, to break himself of the habit it still had lingering within him. It was a stain, a constant reminder of the torture he'd gone through…and he didn't want it. Not here, not at his fresh start.
"Just remember, the scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value." He smiled and patted Jonathan on the shoulder fondly, like a grandparent would do with a smaller child, or what Jonathan had always imagined to be that way. "Rely on others, but most importantly, believe in yourself. You can do anything you put your mind to."
And the man got up to get off the bus, the lingering smell of tobacco, dust, and books trailing in his wake, the impressions and words of Washington Irving stinging Jonathan like a blow to the face.
Oh, he most definitely knew that.
He'd come by train, and it had been a very long, very tiring ride.
Not that his life had been anything but long and tiring, mind you, but Jonathan Crane had found this trip far too long for his liking. This was the first time he'd ever even been out of Georgia, that he could remember, and he planned on never going back…if he could help it.
There was nothing for him back there, in that old decaying mansion that was no longer filled with anything more than rotting wood and dead memories. He'd sold off everything he could from the place, furniture, heirlooms, and valuables if they remained; anything that he could potentially use to get him as far away from his own personal Hell called Arlen, Georgia. That's how he'd found his records.
And why he was headed to Gotham City.
According to the paperwork and all the letters he'd found stashed in his Great Granny's personal writing desk in the corner of her now vacant bedroom, he was the illegitimate son of her great-grand daughter Karen and an elusive man by the name of Gerald Crane…who now worked as a construction manager in Gotham. (Secretly he'd tracked the man down, not that it was overly hard to do.) No surprise there, that he wasn't wanted, not with the way they had treated him all his life. Leaving him alone in that house with her for so long without so much as a word of contact…
What was a surprise was the fact that according to the return addresses on most of the letters and envelopes, most of his family was now located in Gotham or in the suburbs around it. So, that's where he'd planned on going, packing every little thing he owned and selling off everything he could for funding, including a lot of the books in the library.
This was why he now found himself on the Gotham train platform, his measly luggage in one hand, making his way towards the bus stop that would take him to the University. Hopefully it would be there soon, though by the looks of the other patrons waiting along-side him, he doubted that it was ever on time. That was okay, he had all night, and he was here nearly a week early anyways. It was a good thing that the Dean had approved his early arrival, otherwise he'd have had no place to stay. He really couldn't afford to live in a hotel for even a night, let alone an entire week.
It seemed like hours to him, before the bus came, when in reality it had only been forty-five minutes since they'd disembarked from the train. Forty-five long, drug out minutes, spent with him sitting on his luggage, an old book being leafed through as he tucked his scarf further around his long neck. It was only fall here in Gotham, but already the weather was turning cold, much colder then he'd ever felt before, and he didn't have the proper form of attire for such a chill climate. As soon as he came into some money, he'd have to find some decent used clothing, along with other things he'd need to survive here. If not, that he was more than certain he'd freeze to death in the process.
But this city wasn't completely without its charms, he reflected tiredly, no, not at all. It had numerous new libraries to discover and explore, shop upon shop of new and used books, clothing, anything he could think up, he was more than certain he could find. There were even shops for people just like him, people who had not much to live on but more than enough ambition to fuel themselves with. If only he had the money…
But he would, soon.
He'd be starting his new job at the college the day after his arrival, today, and would start looking around for another one for part time hours whenever they could give them to him. He could work and go to school, enough so to keep his head above water and partially out of debt...though he doubted it for long, but it couldn't hurt none the less. But every little bit helped, and so it was with growing confidence that Jonathan Crane boarded the overly late bus.
xXx
The ride started off peacefully enough, though Jonathan had never ridden public transit in his life, or a bus for that matter, before today, he hid his wonderment well. And though it reeked of human body odor and a multitude of other foul excrement, and there was a hobo sleeping on the last seat all the way in the back, Jonathan still found it fascinating. Overall, it sort of added to the charm of the city, which served to only douse his flickering flame of curiosity in gasoline.
Even the littlest of things would peak his interest. Like how the people would spread themselves out when presented with the option, or how those left without a spaced out seat would chose their chairs and partners carefully for transit. How they would weigh other people's worth based on few minute observations and a multitude of human stereotypes that he knew they all had. It was intriguing to watch the men find other male partners to sit near, while women sought out other women…and it was utterly attention grabbing.
So much so, that he didn't see the elderly man sit down next to him in the vacant outer seat in his queue. So much so that he didn't see the very man glance over at him and smile in pure mirth and joy at his wonderment, or how he removed his hat and set it in his lap before tucking the legal college-headed print paper into his jacket once more. He did, however, notice the man when Jonathan was promptly hit from one side when the bus lurched into motion, causing him to lose the tight grip he had on the book still in his hands. It went flying to the floor, only stopping to rest at the feet of the elderly man a seat away from him.
Jonathan's eyes fell to the floor as he bent down to retrieve it, mumbling his apologies as he went, his still southern accented voice sounding odd in the stuffy bus compartment, even too his ears. His cheeks were burning; he could feel them, just as much as he could feel the eyes of the older man watching him as he moved jerkily to the floor in a graceless bend. If only he hadn't been so careless to drop the book in the first place, then he wouldn't have had to open his mouth at all and let out that ridiculous sounding voice. It was the bane of his existence, much like his current monetary situation and the fact that he hadn't a clue in a world this big.
Jonathan tried to move quicker, but the man's hand beat him to the book.
Jonathan's eyes snapped up as the hand moved back, drawing his book with it, slowly moving up and towards the elderly man now clutching one of the very last few remaining possessions he carried with him from the manor. The man…the man had his book!
"Ghosts…now that's a name I haven't heard in a very long time." The man said fondly, turning the old and rather ragged book over in his hands. "And it is in good condition too. You must take very good care of this book."
The man smiled as Jonathan attempted to straighten himself out, long limbs awkward as he moved to face the man now holding his book, attempting to hold in a variety of feelings as they made their way across his mind and face. He narrowed bright blue eyes behind coke bottle frames taped at the bridge, trying desperately to figure out the motivation behind speaking to someone like him. Not even his own family wanted to do that… So then why did a man on a bus in a city he hadn't even been in for a day want to speak to him?
"I try to take very good care of my books." Jonathan decided to say finally, wincing at how his 'my' came out as 'mia' and his vowels far too long for his liking. Though he knew he was speaking quietly, he couldn't help but feel that everyone could hear him. "They're one of the few possessions I value above all else."
"Indeed, a good book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where man's mind can get both provocation and privacy." The man responded calmly, fingers moving over the spine gently as he looked the book over.
Jonathan paused.
"Edward P. Morgan, correct?" He asked, eyebrow arched at the quote the man had just presented him with. It wasn't an overly used one, or a favored author, but it was one he'd heard none the less.
"Brilliant, just brilliant son, and you are correct. I'm impressed, not many people are familiar with his work." The man's smile was enlightening and encouraging, as if he was truly proud. It made Jonathan feel just a bit warmer, if only just. "Tell me, what about this one? It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it."
"Oscar Wilde, of course." Jonathan said, a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth behind the scarf, just barely seen. "Though I haven't quite finished The Importance of Being Earnest just yet, I did read The Picture of Dorian Gray a few months back. His work is rather interesting, I must say."
"You will have to fix that, of course. Finishing the book, I mean." The man held out the book, eyes searching Jonathan's as his head rose to meet him finally, eyes hesitant but intrigued. "And don't worry about the accent, son, it will go away with time. Try not to worry about it too much. It isn't as noticeable as you think it is."
Jonathan could only nod as he accepted the book back, the smile dropping from the corners of his mouth as he turned his eyes away from the man's face at mention of his accent. He was trying too hard to control it, to break himself of the habit it still had lingering within him. It was a stain, a constant reminder of the torture he'd gone through…and he didn't want it. Not here, not at his fresh start.
"Just remember, the scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value." He smiled and patted Jonathan on the shoulder fondly, like a grandparent would do with a smaller child, or what Jonathan had always imagined to be that way. "Rely on others, but most importantly, believe in yourself. You can do anything you put your mind to."
And the man got up to get off the bus, the lingering smell of tobacco, dust, and books trailing in his wake, the impressions and words of Washington Irving stinging Jonathan like a blow to the face.
Oh, he most definitely knew that.
Re-Donk-U-Less
Perhaps tonight hadn't been a good idea after all.
Ideally, breaking into the Natural History Museum would have been a great idea, the thought of all that money to be gained from the glinting jewels and the golden cast statues enough to fuel both Jonathan's internal motivation and his experiments for the next few months. (Especially since he had more than enough buyers lined up for the prizes he was certain to obtain, since the security was shoddy at best anywhere in Gotham, including the museum.) But with that sense of motivation came a certain sense of well-obtained pride that any Rogue had when pulling off a heist and a sense of sportsmanship and distance when it came to the act itself. So when he'd arrived at the museum, Jonathan hadn't thought to check for any other…parties before he got down to business.
This was how he'd ended up knee deep in the damnable flamingo display half-way across the building –and a whole wing away- from his intended goals.
With a shirt covered in tiny pink flamingo down feathers.
Once again, he was reminded as to why he despised birds.
Someone had seen fit to also break in with him, a novice, one who'd set off the easily disarmed security field that was now wailing loudly in the background as he situated himself to ride out this other person's magnificently ignorant blunder. Either they hadn't thought to turn the thing off before strolling through the main foyer of the Rare Gems Collection, or they'd tried and failed spectacularly. Either way, it was still going off all over the building, and exhibit after exhibit was being thrown into lock down. Well, at least it hadn't been himself this time around, and though the noise didn't seem fit to fade anytime soon, he was just lucky it wasn't himself on camera trying to flee for his straw stuffing.
But if the police didn't hurry up and get there to arrest the idiot who'd set off the alarm, he was going to start gassing the place regardless of whether or not they knew he was there. It was late, his plans were already torn to Hell and back, and by now, in his crouched position, his feet and legs were getting very numb very quickly. He was getting far too old for having to deal with this sort of thing, and was definitely too old to have to pretend to be part of a faux flamingo habitat display. And when he was made to feel old, he got distinctly irritable.
Silently, as he was muttering to himself and praying to any god that might be listening that he wasn't caught outright, he tried to shift a bit when a fly –innocently darting along- crossed paths with the God of Fear himself. And flew directly into his mouth, where Jonathan Crane, Lord of Despair, proceeded to choke and start hacking up a lung to attempt to dislodge it from where it'd landed. In doing so, he was not only ejected from his hiding spot within the plastic birds, but he was also spotted from well across the open floor plan of the wing, where the GCPD were hunting through the various Oaks and Pines in search of whoever had set off the alarm in the first place.
Now Jonathan Crane –The Scarecrow- was far from a saint, but even he couldn't deny that the cosmic sense of justice at his gaunt form hopping out of a flamingo display, choking on an insect, and covered in pink feathers at a heist he hadn't even blundered himself, was purely sadistic. Even by his standards, this was an all time low, one that his pride wasn't fully ready to foster-raise as his own, but was more than willing to pin it onto another, less fortunate victim. And with a ferocious growl, one that he was proud to say had come from him; he darted off into the darkness of the museum, the thoughts of the other intruder hot on his mind.
Oh the things he'd do to the vapid little twit who'd made his presumed pleasurable night a living, breathing Hell on wheels.
The ungrateful louse wouldn't know what hit them when he was through.
And when the police finally did find them, they'd wonder just why the body was covered in pink flamingo feathers.
Last Edited: June 2o, 2011 for Jonathan Crane Word Challenge Contest
Ideally, breaking into the Natural History Museum would have been a great idea, the thought of all that money to be gained from the glinting jewels and the golden cast statues enough to fuel both Jonathan's internal motivation and his experiments for the next few months. (Especially since he had more than enough buyers lined up for the prizes he was certain to obtain, since the security was shoddy at best anywhere in Gotham, including the museum.) But with that sense of motivation came a certain sense of well-obtained pride that any Rogue had when pulling off a heist and a sense of sportsmanship and distance when it came to the act itself. So when he'd arrived at the museum, Jonathan hadn't thought to check for any other…parties before he got down to business.
This was how he'd ended up knee deep in the damnable flamingo display half-way across the building –and a whole wing away- from his intended goals.
With a shirt covered in tiny pink flamingo down feathers.
Once again, he was reminded as to why he despised birds.
Someone had seen fit to also break in with him, a novice, one who'd set off the easily disarmed security field that was now wailing loudly in the background as he situated himself to ride out this other person's magnificently ignorant blunder. Either they hadn't thought to turn the thing off before strolling through the main foyer of the Rare Gems Collection, or they'd tried and failed spectacularly. Either way, it was still going off all over the building, and exhibit after exhibit was being thrown into lock down. Well, at least it hadn't been himself this time around, and though the noise didn't seem fit to fade anytime soon, he was just lucky it wasn't himself on camera trying to flee for his straw stuffing.
But if the police didn't hurry up and get there to arrest the idiot who'd set off the alarm, he was going to start gassing the place regardless of whether or not they knew he was there. It was late, his plans were already torn to Hell and back, and by now, in his crouched position, his feet and legs were getting very numb very quickly. He was getting far too old for having to deal with this sort of thing, and was definitely too old to have to pretend to be part of a faux flamingo habitat display. And when he was made to feel old, he got distinctly irritable.
Silently, as he was muttering to himself and praying to any god that might be listening that he wasn't caught outright, he tried to shift a bit when a fly –innocently darting along- crossed paths with the God of Fear himself. And flew directly into his mouth, where Jonathan Crane, Lord of Despair, proceeded to choke and start hacking up a lung to attempt to dislodge it from where it'd landed. In doing so, he was not only ejected from his hiding spot within the plastic birds, but he was also spotted from well across the open floor plan of the wing, where the GCPD were hunting through the various Oaks and Pines in search of whoever had set off the alarm in the first place.
Now Jonathan Crane –The Scarecrow- was far from a saint, but even he couldn't deny that the cosmic sense of justice at his gaunt form hopping out of a flamingo display, choking on an insect, and covered in pink feathers at a heist he hadn't even blundered himself, was purely sadistic. Even by his standards, this was an all time low, one that his pride wasn't fully ready to foster-raise as his own, but was more than willing to pin it onto another, less fortunate victim. And with a ferocious growl, one that he was proud to say had come from him; he darted off into the darkness of the museum, the thoughts of the other intruder hot on his mind.
Oh the things he'd do to the vapid little twit who'd made his presumed pleasurable night a living, breathing Hell on wheels.
The ungrateful louse wouldn't know what hit them when he was through.
And when the police finally did find them, they'd wonder just why the body was covered in pink flamingo feathers.
Last Edited: June 2o, 2011 for Jonathan Crane Word Challenge Contest
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