Author's Note: Ever wonder what happened to Pietro Medicci, Harley's ex-employer? Well, here's your answer. There're quite a few plays on Scarecrow lines from Batman Begins in this one; you guys are just lucky I didn't quote the whole scene to you, word-for-word - which, believe me, I CAN and I WILL, if asked nicely. "Arlecchino," is, again, "harlequin."
At precisely nine-fifteen ante meridiem, the black-suited physician, silver briefcase in hand, strode quickly down the last flight of stairs leading to the underground interrogation rooms of the Gotham City Police Department Major Crimes Unit - or G.C.P.D. M.C.U., respectively. He came here so frequently to "collect" patients that all the guards, having immediately recognized him, had buzzed him through without requesting some form of identification - his driver's license, perhaps - although he had still been made to clip a visitor's tag to the left-hand lapel of his suit jacket. Protocol, they had explained, receiving from him a curt nod laced fully with polite boredom.
A warden - a robust colored woman of middle-age and short stature wearing a neat blue skirt-and-blazer ensemble - met him at the foot of the stairs. "Dr. Crane, thanks for coming."
"Not at all." They began walking down the adjoining hallway as Jonathan continued, his voice clipped, "I of course assume that I was called down here for a reason? I was merely informed by telephone that my presence was requested here immediately - no adequate explanation was administered."
The warden sighed, suddenly appearing to be very tired. "Mr. Medicci has been very. . .resistant towards questioning. And the officers assigned to guard his cell at night have reported him to be constantly muttering nonsense about scars and Jokers." She snorted contemptuously.
"And you believed his actions to be nothing more than stubborn resistance and obvious fakery," Crane supplied, "until. . .?"
The woman sighed again. "Only earlier this morning when he slit his wrists with a fork at breakfast did we realize that he meant business. Commissioner Gordon recognized the pattern of imitating lunacy that seems to have become so commonplace with the lawbreakers in this city, and we called you. Point is, everyone knows he's faking it - but, with the rise of that clown and all that has since followed, no one wants to take any chances, so. . ." She trailed off.
"Of course." Jonathan's tight, close-lipped smile conveyed complete understanding. "Better safe than sorry." He cleared his throat pleasantly.
They arrived at the correct room. Controls beeped as the warden began to enter a security code into the keypad stationed at eye-level to the left of the door.
- - -
Pietro Medicci, pretentious Italian crime lord, smirked smugly to himself as he sat waiting in the bland, windowless square chamber for the physician. Sure, Pietro had gotten himself arrested while returning from overseeing the delivery of his shipments to the Narrows - but his mob lawyer would be more than competent in the negotiating of his release. Besides, even if its contents were slightly questionable, the delivery had been successful, thoroughly lacking in hindrances - so what could possibly go wrong?
But then the door opened and Jonathan Crane strode through, snapping the portal shut behind him with a loud, ominous click.
"Morning, Doc," said Pietro sarcastically.
His expression positively furious, Crane swept across the room and, tightening his grip on the suitcase so much that his knuckles turned white, removed a small object from the depths of his suit jacket with his free hand, tossing the plastic bag unceremoniously onto the table in front of the handcuffed man. A mysterious snowy powder glistened slightly inside the bag.
"You mean to tell me you think I cannot differentiate between my own self-synthesized compound and table salt?"
"Ooops. My mistake." Pietro smiled sweetly.
Crane's eyes bulged, absolutely livid.
"Have a seat, Doc." Medicci gestured.
Suppressing the frustration boiling within his shadow self, Jonathan wordlessly lay the briefcase on the table next to the look-alike but harmless imitation of his deadly fear toxin and sat in the chair across from Pietro.
Crane sighed impatiently. "What do you want?"
"I wanna know," Medicci replied, "how you're gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut."
Jonathan's thin brows drew together in confusion. "I am afraid I cannot deduce your meaning."
"I know you don't want the cops to find out you're continuing to experiment on the inmates of your nuthouse." Medicci leaned closer, lowering his voice a notch. "And I know what you and the Joker get up to, nights. See, I had some of my guys follow you the other evening, to see if my little arlecchino had joined up with you. They didn't find her, but they decided to follow you home anyways - and from what they reported back to me, I've formed my own little opinions about why the Joker would enter your personal apartment at one o'clock in the morning."
Though his passive facial expression did not change, Jonathan's stomach lurched.
"You know what I think? I think you're gay. Two little faggots snuggling up together in your bed, fucking each other in secret 'cause you don't want anyone to know you're Joker's little sex kitten." Pietro leaned back in his chair, lip curling.
Hectic blotches of magenta appeared on Jonathan's high cheekbones.
"It's true, isn't it, Doc?"
Crane sighed in annoyance and removed his glasses. There was no going back now.
He had to get rid of Medicci.
But then again, Jonathan supposed he had already decided that, deep within the recesses of his subconscious.
The full blazing power of the doctor's ice-blue eyes bored into Medicci as Crane inquired pleasantly, "Would you like to see my mask? I use it in my experiments." His voice fairly quivered with excitement as Pietro shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
The dual persona could almost taste the man's fear. . .
Crane opened his briefcase, undoing the twin latches with a rapid, ominous snap. There was a hiss as he activated the respirator on the inside of the mask within. He held it up so Medicci could see: ragged burlap sacking with torn eyeholes and crude black stitching for a mouth.
"Now, at first glance this may not seem very frightening - but nonetheless, with these crazies, it is very effective." Crane pulled the burlap down over his head; Pietro was instantly reminded of a scarecrow standing alone in a cornfield, lording over the tall crops, arms of straw outstretched in triumph.
Medicci chuckled, seeing at once how ridiculous this all was - Crane couldn't expect that to actually scare him, could he? "So tell me, Doc - when did the nut take over the nuthouse?"
Scarecrow shifted to the front of Jonathan's mind; there was another hiss as he depressed a small trigger on the inside of the briefcase. White smoke filled the room, causing Pietro to cough violently; he looked up and screamed.
Glowing orange snails with black tiger-stripes were inching - no, oozing - from the eyeholes in the mask towards him. . .
The cornfield being stood slowly, clawed hands reaching ominously for Pietro across the table. "We are most displeased with your failure to comply with our requests," the deep, rasping voice of the Scarecrow said.
Medicci continued to scream and scream as the burlap morphed into a white clown face with emerald green snakes for hair and deep black pits for eyes, its horribly scarred mouth dripping blood as maniacal laughter rang in his ears. . .
- - -
Moments later, Crane emerged from the room - burlap sack returned to the briefcase which he held once again at his side - and addressed the warden.
"Well," said Crane, adjusting his glasses, "he's certainly not faking" - he cleared his throat brightly - "not that one. I'll. . .talk to the judge and see if I can get him moved to the secure wing at Arkham - I can't treat him here, you understand."
The warden nodded, gazing speechlessly at the door - from behind which howls of terror could still be heard - as Jonathan stalked away, lips twisted upward in an expression not unlike his lover's own scarred leer.
They were still safe.
END
The "shadow self" is part of a theory created by psychologist Carl Jung in which it is composed of emotions and desires that an individual regularly suppresses. If you have any further questions, as always, please let me know.