Dr. Jonathan Crane, also known as the villain Scarecrow, escaped from Arkham Asylum on November 2, 2005. It wasn't an elaborate breakout. No one was killed or gassed or even hurt. The guards and orderlies were distracted by a riot started by the Joker and encouraged by every other dangerous inmate.

In the resulting confusion, Crane walked out of the asylum with thousands of dollars worth of medication. Then, despite Bruce's expectations, he disappeared off the face of the earth. There were no reports of drugs that turned users into terrified, huddles masses. No widespread panic among any populace. There weren't even any reports of the chemicals needed to create Crane's toxin being stolen. It was as if Crane just didn't exist.

Bruce two theories to this mysterious disappearance. Either Crane had gotten himself killed, or he'd left town and was planning to cause mayhem somewhere else.

He was betting on the latter. And even though his main jurisdiction was Gotham, Bruce felt that Crane was his responsibility. So he kept an eye out for reports of people suffering from the effects of Crane's fear toxin.

About a year after Crane had disappeared, one finally came in.

Douglas Fletcher, a medical assistant at a private practice in Chicago, had been found in the office, huddled in the corner. His heart rate was severely elevated, and he'd had to be sedated in order for anyone to treat him. Even on awaking, he'd exhibited signs of extreme terror and both visual and auditory hallucinations. According to the newspaper article, there was evidence of drugs in his system, but it wasn't anything familiar to the treating doctors.

Bruce forwarded the article to Fox, who, in turn, contacted the doctors with what he knew about Crane's toxin. Apparently, it was a match. Fox sent the antidote and Bruce began to plan.

This wasn't like when he'd gone to Hong Kong to get Lau. Back then, not only did he have Gordon's blessing, but he'd known exactly where to go. Bruce knew Crane's general location; he didn't know it specifically. He didn't want to go into Chicago as Batman, cause a big stir, and then drag Crane back. This called for a little more discretion.

So. Bruce Wayne officially came down with a case of something serious and confined himself to the mansion, out of sight. For two weeks, Bruce prepared, changing his appearance (hair dye, make-up, and facial hair) before leaving for Chicago with a new identity: Private Detective Jack Sullivan who was working a missing persons case.

That missing person would be found and brought back to justice.

* * *

Jonathan groaned as he came back to consciousness. A pain was knifing through his head and his back and neck ached.

"You back with us, Sugar?" a soft voice cooed. "Just take it easy now."

He blinked open his eyes, feeling them stick together. They were dry and scratchy. Painful. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"Hang on a sec." A cool hand laid on his forehead. Pulled up his eyelids. "Looks like you got a pair of contacts in there. I got some solution to wet them down. Hang on."

Jonathan closed his eyes again and furrowed his forehead. Now that he was more awake, a thousand other pains were clamoring for his attention. His legs felt as if someone had sanded the skin off them; same with his hands. His back and stomach both felt bruised, and it hurt a little to breathe.

"Okay, Sugar. I'm back." Fingers pried at Jonathan's eyes. Cool liquid dropped in, easing the stickiness and flooding his vision.

"That's good." He wiped his eyes and sat up. Groaned.

"Easy there." A big hand pressed against his back to help him. "There's a pillow behind you. Settled against it."

Jonathan did, wiping the last of the saline solution from his eyes. He looked at his companion.

Orange hair was piled on top of her head. Her eyelashes were very exaggerated, long, black, and painted with glitter. Her lips were just a shade off of her hair , flawlessly lined with a brilliant shine. Eye make-up, foundation, and blush were applied with a heavy hand.

Her clothes were just as gaudy: a formfitting black lace top with a red frilly bra edging out of the neckline, fishnet stockings, skin tight red leather skirt, and stiletto heels.

She wasn't bad looking, though. Attractive in an unorthodox way. It took a third glance to realize that she was a he.

He took that in stride. If he remembered correctly, he'd been in an area with a lot of bars, looking for easy prey. He still had money from his previous employment, but he believed in saving for the future. It was easy to lift wallets from drunks, and until he found something more permanent, it was the quickest way to earn money.

Apparently, one of the bars he'd passed had been a drag club. And somehow he'd ended up in it.

Not just in it, but behind the scenes. He looked like he was in a dressing room of some kind. It was stuffed clothes racks overflowing with garish costumes. Bras, stockings, boas, and feathered fans were flung on every available surface. Jonathan was sitting on an overstuffed couch, satin pillows at his head and feet. Across the room was a dressing table, make-up and jewelry strewn across. Above it was the mirror which gave him a good view of his injuries: scrape on his forehead, bruise near his chin, along with the fading bruises around his neck from before. His face was pale and practically clashed with the over-bleached straw on top of his hair from a bad dye job. His contacts made his eyes an unnatural green and the whites around them were bloodshot.

He looked exhausted. Felt exhausted.

Jonathan pulled his eyes away from the mirror and back to the drag queen. "What happened? Where am I? Who are you?" He blushed as soon as the words left his mouth, hearing how clichéd he sounded.

She didn't seem to care. "I'm Cherry Augusta. You're in my dressing room at Dreamgirls, and you were hit a car. Me and a few of the other girls were outside smoking when it happened. The jerk drove off. We couldn't find any identification on you, just your prescriptions and a wad of cash, so we figured that maybe you didn't want any attention from the authorities. But, if we were wrong, someone can take you to the hospital."

He shook his head. "No. I'd rather not. I'm fine, thank you."

Cherry smiled in understanding. "Hope you don't mind me asking, but when I was cleaning off your scratches, I saw those bruises you have. You got someone treating you rough?"

Jonathan pressed his lips together. Looked at Cherry blankly.

"All right, then. You don't have to say anything." Cherry slid off the couch. Put her hand on Jonathan's shoulder as she passed him. "When's the last time you ate, Sugar? I can practically count your ribs."

"I ate this morning. I'm fine." His stomach grumbled, betraying him. He'd eating that morning, but only a muffin and a cup of coffee.

She didn't say anything as she opened the refrigerator. It was fully stocked with food and, a moment later, Jonathan had a plate of fruit, meat, cheese, and crackers and a soda. "You even got a place to stay?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Did. Not anymore." He took a bite of cracker and cheese. Swallowed. "I've been staying where I can. There's plenty of abandoned buildings around."

"You have a job?"

He snorted. After nearly a week living in abandoned buildings and washing in bathrooms, he'd acquired the grungy look of someone without permanent habitation. Cherry must have been being polite.

"So, is this about the man that hurt you? You run away?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "It wasn't a boyfriend or anything if that's what you're thinking. I had some trouble at my last place of employment. I'm just having momentary difficulties securing a new job."

"You always talk like you've got a stick up your ass?"

He looked up at Cherry from under his eyelashes. "I suppose."

She reached over and plucked a strawberry from his plate. "So, what's losing your job have to do with losing your apartment? You that behind on rent?"

"It's complicated." He'd gassed the idiot at work and been forced to run again. So far, he hadn't left the city, but he knew he was pushing it. Somehow he knew that as soon as the Batman found out he was alive and operating, even outside of Gotham, he'd come for Jonathan.

Which was ridiculous. He'd been completely within his rights to hit that animal with his fear toxin.

The thing that made it worse was that job had been perfect. Jonathan had been working medical transcriptionist for the practice. He'd had his own little office in the back, secluded and away from everyone. Two days a week, he'd worked from home, but the main thing was he had access to the drugs he needed to keep the hallucinations left over from his exposure to his toxin. The doctor hadn't kept the exact pills he needed at the office, but between those that were stocked at the office, and Jonathan's access to a prescription pad, he'd been able to make what he needed easily.

And now that was gone. He was left with three prescription pads which were, of course, extremely traceable, and some vague plans of getting a hold of the chemicals he'd need in the future. Very vague, as in not even half thought of dreams at this point.

He was kind of fucked thanks to that asshole Fletcher. No pun intended.

So, when Cherry just looked at him with a raised eyebrow, Jonathan gazed back with one of his own. He could match look for look any day. He'd been a psychiatrist; staring had been his job.

Finally, Cherry shrugged. "Well. It always is." She watched Jonathan as he ate a cracker. "You're really pretty, you know. Buzz has been trying to get someone with your kind of looks in here for awhile. A man who can do a pretty woman."

"You're kidding, right?"

"About offering you a job?"

"That the guy who owns this place is named Buzz."

Cherry laughed. "Buzz iloves/i dressing in woman's clothes, but he doesn't like the whole renaming himself. Just likes the clothes. So he got into the business. I'm a performer, along with about five of the other girls. The opening we have right now is for a waitress."

"You have the authority to hire someone?"

She nodded. "I'm a manager, too. It seems like you need a job, and I'm in the position to give you one."

"You don't even know my name. You know nothing about me."

"Well. What is your name?"

He hesitated, then said, "Sean Miller."

Cherry smile. She obviously knew that it was fake. "You wouldn't be the first person who ended up here because they were running away from a bad situation. Buzz gets that."

"I've never dressed in drag before."

"It's not hard. You just put the clothes on. We'll help you. You won't be asked to perform, just serve some drinks and smile at the customers. Buzz keeps it safe, and, anyway, we mostly get women in here, looking for some entertainment. You wouldn't have to worry about anything."

Jonathan considered it, turning the idea over in his mind. His eyes slid over to the dressing table, covered in make-up and wigs and jewelry. If he took this job, he wouldn't have to leave the city. He'd have a disguise without being disguised. And who would suspect it? Who would ever look for Dr. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, in a drag club?

"All right," he said. "I'll do it."

* * *

Fletcher was still in the hospital due to visual hallucinations. Bruce found him in his room, sitting by the window, looking out.

Bruce knocked. "Mr. Fletcher?"

The man turned. Flinched violently before closing his eyes. After several deep breaths, he opened them again. "Sorry. Come in."

He stepped inside and pulled out his fake ID. "I'm Detective David Mills. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"Uh, I guess. This about Patrick?" Something dark flashed across his face when he said the name.

Something about that look and the way he said his attackers name set Bruce on edge. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed across from Fletcher. Pulled a notebook from his pocket. "Patrick Barnes, yes. Also, possibly known as Jonathan Crane, or the Scarecrow." He frowned when Fletcher closed his eyes and jerked away. That was about the fifth time now. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Yes. Sorry." He waved a hand over his eyes. "The medication or whatever from Wayne Enterprises took the whole… terror thing away. But I'm stuck with these damn hallucinations. Things flying at my face all the time. People looking like their face is melting. I'm not terrified out of control, but it's… difficult."

Right. Bruce remembered Fox telling him about people who'd been affected by Crane's toxin, the ones who didn't get the antidote within two days, suffering from hallucinations. There didn't seem to be a cure for that, although Bruce knew there were still people working within Wayne Enterprises and Arkham, among other places, trying to find a cure. Or, at the very least, a medication to counteract the effects.

"Do you know why Crane hit you with the toxin?"

He was certain he saw a smirk before Fletcher schooled his face into one of bewilderment. "I have no idea. Patrick… Crane… whoever he is, he was always… quiet. Just sat back in his office all day, never talking to anyone. Didn't even ever eat lunch with the rest of us. I mean, I liked him, we all did. He was polite. Smart as hell. But none of us has any idea what he'd do, you know?"

"What happened the night he did it?"

Fletcher let out a breath. Closed his eyes again, swatting an invisible something from his face. "Um, well. It was Friday night, after hours. Patrick was in his office." He cleared his throat. "He always stays late on Friday, finishing up. It was my turn to make sure everything was restocked for Monday, so I stayed late, too. When I was done, I….I…I went back to say good-bye and he just, uh, just blasted me in the face."

It was as if Fletcher had read a book on signs of lying and decided to try them all in one conversation.

"The two of you had never fought before that? Had an argument?"

"No. Like I said, we hardly talked. And when we did, it was all polite. He was polite, like I said. Cold. Like he thought he was better than everyone."

That sounded like Crane. Except, he'd never really attacked without provocation. Yes, there'd been the inmates at Arkham, but those hadn't been attacks so much as… experimentation. Illegal, yes, completely and utterly immoral, but not random attacks.

There was something more going on here. Something more than one coworker bidding goodnight to the other, only to be attacked.

"What did he do after?"

Fletcher swiped his hand in front of his face. "Uh, I don't really remember. Stood over me for a little bit, watching as I screamed. God, his face was so…" He swallowed. "Then he left. I was left there, lying on the floor, screaming until I passed out. Woke up here." He rubbed his face. "I thought someone else was working this case," he said.

"I'm private detective," Bruce said, rising. He flipped his notepad shut. "Arkham Asylum hired me to help track Crane down. Thanks for answering my questions, Mr. Fletcher."

"No problem. I just hope some catches that little shit."

And there was genuine emotion. None of the 'he was a nice guy' or 'we all liked him' mouthing from before. There, on Fletcher's face, was the truth: disgust, anger, frustration, and a twisted kind of longing.

It made Bruce's stomach bottom out. It was hard not to punch Fletcher, just for that look, which wasn't fair. He was the victim, after all. And yet, there was more to this story. He wanted to find out what. Not that it mattered, in the end, of course. Crane was an escaped convict and mental patient. He was going back to Arkham no matter what.

But if Fletcher had done something to provoke Crane… anything illegal, well. Bruce was a champion for justice. In or out of Gotham, criminals would pay.