The night that The Narrows turned on themselves wasn't something easily forgettable, not by anyone standards, but particularly not for Hannah Abrams. She'd been feeling particularly ill for most of the day, so had kept herself to herself anyway. Nothing much, just a hangover, from the excesses of a previous nights wild activities. She was lucky she had. Outside, the screams of those who had been unfortunate enough to be caught in the chaos rang loudly, and further away she could hear gunshots. She shivered in fear, and held her bat closer to her, the only protection she had. She was sitting, in a corner in the dark, hoping nobody would get it into their heads to try to break into her apartment. She guessed she was fortunate enough that she loved off of the ground floor- at the very least, it wasn't an easy target.
At least, thats what she'd thought until she heard a huge crash from the floor below, as glass in the shopfront she lived above was shattered, and the shrill sounds of somone or something in distress could clearly be heard. She froze, mentally begging whatever deity might have existed that it was simply an accident, that whoever was down there wouldn't think to come upstairs. Seconds passed in what seemed a syrup like fashion, as seconds slowly turned to minutes. Ten minutes, then twenty, then thirty. Whatever chaos was going on down there began to move away, into another part of the Narrows.
Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. She remained where she was for a few minutes, keeping her senses alert for any signs or sounds of trouble. When there were none, she picked herself and her bat up, and made her way to her apartment door, when she heard what sounded like a whinnying. Peering through the glass eye on her door, she ripped off the bottom of the shirt she was wearing over her vest, and tied it over her face, in an almost vain effort to prevent herself from breathing in the fog that had suddenly appeared when this all began. She'd been watching from her window when people on the streets had started screaming in fear, and fleeing in panic- she didn't want the same to happen to her. After sliding back the many bolts on her apartment door, she cautiously crept out.
The hallway was absolutely silent, and nothing could be heard or seen at all. Hannah continued on downstairs, and snuck onto the shop floor, being as careful as she could to avoid any would be looters that may still be near. There were none, but what was there, was the form of a police horse, on its side. From where she was, she could make out that the animal was clearly in some form of distress, and bitterly wished that there was something she could do to put it out of its misery. She wasn't particularly an animal lover, but there are some things you wouldn't wish on anything. She scanned around again, and her eyes fell on something else, laying close by the horse. She couldn't make out very much, but it was very obvious that it was a person, who'd been thrown clear. Leaving the bat at the bottom of the stairs, she moved quickly across the floor to ascertain whether or not the person was alive.
As she knelt down by the body,she could make out the rise and fall of their chest. That was a relief. There was something over their face (perhaps for a cruel hanging amidst the chaos? she wondered briefly, a crudley stitched burlap sack, and she tried to loosen it to allow for easier breathing, but then stopped herself, realising that whomever it was would end up breathing in the fog. She groaned as she realized that safest place for the person, now apparent to her as a man, was back upstairs in her apartment. Bracing herself, she sat him up, grabbed him under the arms, and rose awkwardly. Surprisingly, he wasn't particularly heavy, which would make things easier. Slowly, she began to drag him back towards the relative safety of the staircase, and the apartment above.
Hannah was almost to her door, she heard a sound come from underneath the mask. She stopped for a second and listened, as a voice, raspy and slurred, as if in a stupor, said "Scarecrow."
Curious for an instant, she tried to figure this out, before shrugging it off and finally reaching her door. She dragged the body over to her couch, and placed him on it. Then, after sliding all the locks back into place on her door, she went into her tiny kitchen, returning with a knife, to try and slice through the contraints that held the sack over his head in place. Pulling it off, she stared at it in confusion for a moment, as in the poor light afforded by the murky streetlamp outside, she could see that it was a crudely made mask. She threw it somewhere behind her, trying to ignore the twinge of nervousness it caused her, choosing to focus instead on the face now in front of her. It was at his point that the light outside finally failed, and she grumbled as she felt her way around for her lighter. Upon finding it she lit a candle (a leftover from a failed meal with a former boyfriend), and then turned again to focus on the mans face.
Though bruised, she could see make out defined features- long lashes on eyelids closed over his eyes, wavy hair that was an utter mess and pronounced cheekbones. He was in some kind of fevered state, which made her wonder just what the hell had happened to him. Untying her crude gas mask, she went into the bathroom, intending to run some cold water onto the rag, in an attempt to bring his temperature back down. She had to wait for a moment, as the taps and pipes behind them made some very odd groaning noises, before a small stream of cold water ran from the tap.
She placed the damp rag on his forehead, wiping away the sweat at first, before then leaving it there to cool his head down. Looking at her now very ragged shirt, she sighed and gave it up, realizing that she needed it for a more important reason. It had been one of her favourite shirts too. She went back into the bathroom with a bowl, to collect some water to clean the rest of him up with. There were glass fragments all around him when she'd found him, some with blood on them. She wasn't going to take the chance that there weren't any in him, and so she began loosening his jacket. When she finally succeeded in opening his shirt, she was relieved to find that there were only small scratches there. This guy had had a lucky break. She cleaned them up as best she could, and when she was done, she covered him with a blanket and sat on the floor beside the couch to wait out the rest of the night, and finally felt she could begin to relax.
She felt her eyes growing heavy just as the first rays of the morning finally began to hit.
The field was wide and light. And yet, it was still difficult to make much of anything out. There was movement at the edge of her vision, and she turned to see what appeared to be a group of small children approaching her. They regarded her curiously for an instant, before breaking into laughter. They were remarkably healthy looking, entirely like those children who were raised in the poorest areas of Gotham.
"Come and see him! Come and see him!" On particularly small and grubby looking boy chirped at her, before taking her hand and atempting to lead her into the unknown.
"Who?" And unusually, she wasn't surprised to hear the response.
"The King of The Pumpkin Patch!" The grubby little thing laughed again, and it was at this point that she noticed his hands. They were sticks and straw. Looking again, the child had suddenly grown, and she found herself looking into the face of something utterly undefinable. She was filled with an icy fear, and struggled to free herself its grip. The harder she struggled, the more frightened she became, which only seemed to please the creature. Evetually, she could take it no longer, and let herself be pulled down into the encroaching blackness, all the while aware of a strange, high scratchy laughter.
She was woken later by some form of movement nearby. Groggily sitting up, the first thing Hannah noticed was that it was early morning. The second, was that the man she'd dragged in last was attempting to sit up on the couch. There was a look of wild confusion on his face, as he tried to make sense of just where he was. He looked around the room, his eyes finally coming to rest on the person stood before him, who had somehow grabbed her bat and now regarded him warily.
"So glad you finally decided to join the land of the living", the woman he was now focussed on remarked. He frowned as he tried to remember just what had happened previously. The last thing he remembered was a large dark figure stood over him, and then from the depths of his mind a haunting laughter...
"I....uh...I'm sorry, but what?"
"You're damn lucky I found you. Everything went to Hell last night, and apparently you were lucky enough to have pissed somebody off. So just who are you?"
The man winced as he propped himself up, evidently still trying to sift through his memories. Eventually, after a long pause he replied, his voice calm, pleasant, but betraying no hint of emotion:
"Crane.....Dr. Jonathan Crane."