What the Cat Dragged In

The Gotham City nights held no terrors for Selena Kyle as she slipped through the shadows with the ease of one born there. In a new age of overgrown boys dressed as bats, jesters, and scarecrows, Selena knew the best way to thrive was to blend in, not to stand out.

She strolled from the coffee shop she had haunted all evening and adjusted the collar of her simple black coat. She stretched absently, the tips of her fingers brushing along the awning above as she rolled her head to keep her mark in sight. Unaware of the eyes on him, the middle-aged man on the sidewalk opposite her dug in an attache for his keys as he walked. She paced him step by step until he arrived at his car; there, she broke off, turning down an alleyway and sliding into the shadows.

For a solid week the hotel manager had taken the exact same path to his car. The manager was an unremarkable man, but he was the only one who carried the precious keycard allowing her access to the hotel's guest safe. It was too easy; a rank beginner could pull off a heist this simple. But with the bat patrolling the rooftops, Selena was relegated to ground surveillance. And ground-level surveillance led to entry-level jobs. She hated it. Here she was, stuck in an alley, with either a sleeping bum or a corpse – she wasn't sure which, and the smell didn't help her assessment – as her only company.

In the years before the bat she had freely roamed the high paths of the city, plucking precious jewels from the unwary. Her burglaries were never high profile enough to attract unwanted attention from the city crime lords, but profitable enough to keep her satisfied. Unfortunately, ever since the disaster in the Narrows two weeks ago, the police were everywhere. And if the police were not around, i he /i was.

She'd seen the bat man several times. After all, it was hard to hide in that outfit. He had yet to notice her though, and he probably never would. Unless she did something outrageously stupid, he would have no i reason /i to notice her – she looked like any other black-clad urbanite. From the rooftops it was hard to tell that her shoes were a bit more practical than those of her peers, or that her coat fit just a little too closely for fashion.

The hotel manager started his car and glared at the traffic, no doubt cursing the parking lot renovations that forced him to leave his BMW on the street with the rabble. She knew the feeling, she thought, scanning the alley again. A reflection caught her eye and she glanced at the bum, whose sudden twitch had stirred the debris beneath him. Not a corpse, then. The shape jerked again and she saw the muted shine of a once-expensive wing tip. Not a bum at all -- fascinating.

Curiosity aroused, she walked further into the alley to get a better look. The foot disappeared into the shadows, but not before she caught a glimpse of a bony ankle and the tailored trouser leg above it. "And what might you be?" she mused loud enough for him to hear, taking a careful, circling path to arrive just feet away.

The figure huddled closer to the wall, trying in vain to vanish in the shadows cast by the empty crates and boxes of refuse. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she noticed the trailing straps of a straight jacket. Ah, one of the loonies from Arkham Asylum then -- he had made it a long way uptown from the Narrows. She had seen other inmates in the past weeks. Most had been too wild with fear to survive in the streets, and had been picked up quickly by the police.

But, none of them had been wearing anything other than orange jumpsuits. Hmmm. She flexed her wrists and a small dagger dropped into each palm. "You're not an inmate, are you?" she said, keeping her voice low when she heard his harsh breathing speed up. "You're something else entirely." His face was still lost in darkness as he dragged himself to his feet, but she could make out the glitter of his eyes.

With a quick movement she tossed her first dagger, knocking one of the boxes away to clear the shadows hiding his identity. Even filthy, slack-jawed and two weeks unshaven, she recognized Arkham's most notorious doctor from the newspaper photos. She almost laughed. "Oh my, the Scarecrow himself," she said, delighted to have made such a find. His empty hand rose, aiming for her face, but he had lost whatever grace he once possessed and she caught his wrist easily.

"Well, that's not very nice," she taunted as he struggled against her. She pocketed her other knife and caught his free wrist, pressing him against the wall. It was surprising how weak he seemed to be, and he had yet to make a single sound, which was… unnerving. "You have caused quite enough trouble with that pesky fear toxin of yours, i doctor. /i " She twisted his arms to aim his wrist sprayer at his own face, buying herself time to decide what to do with him.

She didn't have to worry though, as he had frozen in terror, focusing on his own hands. She sighed and pulled his arms down, taking the opportunity to relieve him of the contraption around his right wrist. "Fell into your own trap, didn't you, silly boy?" She released him and stepped back, examining the small spray canister.

His big eyes, colorless in the gloom, slowly traveled from his hands up to her face. There was clearly nobody home, she thought. "I can't let you keep this," she said, rattling the sprayer. "It's not like it's done you any good anyway. Can you even hear me?"

With a blink, an uncanny focus came to his eyes. Cracked lips pursed. "Of course," he said precisely with a broken voice, his head tilting as though she were the crazy one.

"Well, good for you," she said, amused, but with one hand back on her knife. "Do you know where you are? Who you are?"

"Scarecrow," he whispered. His head jerked in an odd, birdlike motion, tossing dark hair into his eyes.

"Right." She drew out the word, smirking. Selena gave him the once-over and was pretty certain he had no other weapons. The burlap mask mentioned in the stories was nowhere to be seen. "You know you're Jonathan Crane, right?"

"I know who I was." His gaze softened and wandered off over her shoulder.

"Well, that's something." She pocketed the canister. "Your little toy wouldn't have worked on me anyway. Everyone's had the antidote by now."

He was gone again, silent and apparently lost in his insanity, and she was left to debate what to do with him. There was, of course, a reward on his head. But that would require a nice little interview with the police, and more trouble than she wanted to go to. She could truss him up and leave him for the bat to find, but why make things easy for that crusader?

The slanting light from the street had illuminated their little drama, so she checked for any observers. With a last glance upward, just to be sure, she looked at the doctor, who seemed to be talking silently to himself. This was a far different creature from the prim, bespectacled man in the Gazette file photo His sharpened bones and hollow cheeks made him look much like one of the nightmares his drug had created. Through the filth and beard she saw half-open puncture wounds connected by a network of angry webbed streaks – were those burns? Good Lord.

Whatever else he was, the former head of Arkham was still only human, and she felt a wave of unaccustomed sympathy come over her. "Hey, Crane," she waved a hand in front of his face, and started to speak again when his attention wobbled back to her. "Why don't you let me –" Blank again. Damn. "Hey…don't make me call you Scarecrow."

This time when she spoke, she gave him a little shove to get his attention -- she was impressed and surprised when he snapped to life. He threw her off, almost losing his own balance, and ran off into the darkness, showing more coordination than seemed possible just a moment before. She listened to his pounding footfalls and considered going after him, her interest fading with the sound. "Huh."

Turning on her heel, she strolled back to the deserted street. Another latte sounded good.