The old man with the grizzled beard and the wooden teeth has seen many things. He's a native Gothamite, for crying out loud! There's things in this city that would have driven a lesser man insane. Take the fuckin' crocodile man. That's a nasty piece of work.
His name is Harry Race, and he has fished these waters for thirty years. He has no wife or kids, but he is the much-beloved uncle of his sister's boys. He takes pleasure in the fact that someone will miss him if anything should happen.
So far, though, he's avoided seeing any of these flashy upstarts that rob banks and blow shit up. He considers himself lucky.
There's a pull on his nets and he hauls them up, expecting one of the freakishly large fish that swims in the river. He'll throw it back if it is.
It's not.
It's two scrawny, shivering people, their clothes clinging to their bodies. Before he can yank them aboard or throw them back, the taller one is getting to his feet and helping his companion up. They work their way out of the nets and the old man's breath catches. Only one person has a mask like that.
The Scarecrow is standing on his boat. The fucking Scarecrow is standing on his boat.
"Ah." he says, striding forward. "You are the owner of this vessel, I take it."
Harry says nothing. The Scarecrow doesn't seem to care.
"You will get us some blankets, and then you will go where I direct you. Do as I say, and you may survive with both your sanity and your limbs intact."
"I-I…"
"Or will I have to do it myself?"
"I'll do it."
"Then do so."
Harry goes below for a pair of garish orange shock blankets. When he returns, the sack-faced man is leaning on the railing, looking at the cold water. The woman he has with him is shivering, her arms wrapped tightly across her breasts. If this is who he thinks it is, it's best to keep his eyes downcast. He remembers the story of the ogler, and how he ended up ripping his own tongue out.
"Here."
The Scarecrow says nothing, simply taking the things without a word. One arm is pressed to his chest and two of his fingers are bent wrongly. Someone gave the sorry bastard a good thrashing, then. At least some people are still up for beating down these punks.
The orange seems somehow sinister with him wearing it. Harry will have to burn these when this is all over. If he survives, that is.
"Turn it around."
"What?"
"Now."
He starts up the engine and brings her about, hoping he doesn't have to go far.
"Good. Now go straight until I tell you otherwise. If you do anything to make us look suspicious…"
He doesn't continue. He doesn't need to.
Silence settles over the boat. The only things Harry can hear are the engine and his own raspy breathing. He'll be okay as long as he doesn't deviate from his orders. God, he never thought he'd see the day! Taking orders from a kid, a kid that probably could have done with a whipping in his youth! Oh, if Momma could see him now…
"Turn left. Go slowly."
The raspy voice frightens him and he can't stop himself from flinching. The Scarecrow chuckles, a sound that quickly turns into a badly-muffled cough. Maybe he'll get pneumonia and die.
"Slowly, I said."
He slows the boat down to a poke. A moment later, the keys are yanked out of the ignition and tossed into the water. What the hell?
"Thank you for the lift."
"My keys!"
The mask turns to look at him and Harry swears he sees it frown.
"Would you rather let me hear you scream? That can be arranged."
"No."
They stare at each other before there's the thwap of wet blankets hitting the deck.
"Wise choice."
They ease themselves over the side and wade to shore, disappearing in the blackness of the narrows.