Hello ladies and gentlemen and welcome to another one of my twisted creations. I know that I already have a story going on, but this was just begging to be written. Fear not, I haven't abandoned the other, I'm just at a small stall.

This is yet another Batman story featured around our lovely Dr. Crane. It's centered around him and my OC, Allison Vaine. It will contain violence, lanugage, and adult situations.

Please enjoy the story and tell me what you think, but please be gentle. I hope you enjoy this little preview. On a final note I am looking for a BETA reader for either of my stories. If you're interested please let me know.

I do not own Batman or anything related to it. My OC is fictional and owned by me. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is completely coincidental.

On we go!

Phobophobia :

Prologue - I do believe in Batman

Stuck in a bathroom; who ever thought I'd sink this low? Who ever thought I'd end up here? Only important people get stuck in bathrooms. The pretty little blonde girls with too much money to burn were the ones who got stuck in bathrooms, kidnapped until their dutiful parents paid their ransom and set them free; or until Batman crashed the party and rescued them himself.

There would be no Batman rescuing me. I was a nobody, a second rate hair stylist in Gotham's big city streets. I wasn't a lawyer, a reporter, or even blonde for that matter; so counting on Batman was out of the question.

Though the thought was rather nice.

The bathroom was small. Light blue and slightly mildewed tile covered the walls, cold to the touch. I was in the Narrows; at least that's what the rusted bars on the tiny window told me. It was unkempt, a sign that the owner of said apartment either didn't care about keeping it up or just wasn't around enough to do so. Judging by the person who owned the place, it was the latter. Being locked in Arkham for months at a time didn't exactly leave you room on your schedule for scrubbing toilets or wiping away cobwebs.

The Narrows; dirty, dingy, and filth invested. It was a wonder the place hadn't collapsed on itself yet. Law enforcement didn't dare get involved if they could help it. They didn't like the place just as much as people like me did. It was much like Old Town from those Sin City novels I've come to love, well minus the women clad in fetish attire. The people here in the Narrows made their own rules, had their own hierarchy. If you were lucky you knew someone at the top, most didn't. There were unspoken rules the average person had to abide by here in Narrows. You're life, and in most cases virginity, depended on it. The most important rule: Never ever go out at night, even if you can't help it.

Midst my musings I came to find that I was face to face with my reflection, peering at me with baggy eyes and sallow skin through the hazy, decrepit mirror. To say I wasn't thrilled with what I saw would be a grave understatement. It wasn't the age old make up that was going on three days old, the mascara that left black streaks painted down my face, the fact that my hair looked like I washed it with bacon grease, or the fact that my skin itched like hell from not being able to shave. It was the clothes that hung off my body in a baggy, unflattering, orange mess. Arkham Asylum was stamped neatly on the back of my long sleeve orange top. Above my left breast was stamped the same, only smaller, followed by a series of numbers. The pants, matching in color, hung off my hips in a trashy fashion.

Obviously these weren't mine. Arkham may be corrupt in some areas, but they at least had the decency to give inmates fitting uniforms.

The numbers that were printed on my top were not my numbers, I wasn't even a patient. They belonged to the man who locked me in here and threw away the key; the man who, for the past year, has tormented me and kept me on my toes, constantly looking over my shoulder.

Jonathan Crane; or as you might know him, Scarecrow.

He was smart, that I had to admit. True he was no Nygma, but he was able to keep me three steps behind him on a constant basis. Even if I were to escape by some fluke, being dressed like a fleeing inmate from Arkham would alert unwanted attention. It didn't matter that the numbers printed on my shirt weren't mine; people would see orange, the Arkham insignia on my back, the greasy and unkempt girl dashing through the streets of the Narrows, barefoot. That alone would be enough to get me apprehended.

You might be thinking, why not strip the uniform off? Surely being seen naked wouldn't be as bad getting tossed in Arkham?

Let's lay out the facts shall we? I'm a female, naked, alone, and looking like hell; running around the Narrows of all places. It's almost guaranteed I'd be picked off and raped by the time I reached the end of the block. Arkham was bad, but rape was worse. I'd take my chances with the crazies any day.

With a sigh I let my body sink to the floor in a slow, beaten fashion. I, Allison Vaine, was going to be another statistic. Three out of every ten citizens are killed by rouges each month. I was going to be part of that three.

Another statistic; part of the percentage.

I've never wanted to be blonde more than right now.

"I do believe in Batman. I do, I do."