Jonathan Crane leaned over his desk, papers thrown everywhere in a form of organized chaos. His shoulders ached from the long hours he spent leaving over the mass of endless papers and dozens of open books. Gotham had laughed at him! It was like having to relive part of his past, and the past was better left strangled, burned in hell's fires, and the ashes stuffed in a coffin that was twenty feet in the unforgiving ground.
Was Gotham laughing at him, or The Scarecrow? Were they one in the same? Was he The Scarecrow? Was The Scarecrow him? Was Scarecrow his protector, or tormenter? A friend or fiend? Was The Scarecrow another being or himself? A mask or him?
An enraged howl tore its way past Jonathan's lips as he jolted up from the old wooden chair. The sound it made as it crashed was drowned by the sound of the desk being flipped over, papers fluttering in the still air. Frantic, chilly blue eyes darted around the room before landing on the burlap mask. Was it Scarecrow's face, or just simply a mask?
Crane's slender fingers wove their way into brown locks before the nails dug harshly into his skull and ripped out the hair painfully. Who was Jonathan Crane? Who was Scarecrow? When did one end and the other start? Were they the same or different? Another howl escaped him as the once proud Arkham doctor picked up his, or was it Scarecrow's, mask.
The sound of ripping seems filled the lit room. Two halves of the mask were thrown to opposite sides of the room. Was this room his prison just like an Arkham cell? Or was his mind the true prison. Jonathan stormed to the lamp, jerking it off its stand, the darkness quickly closing in as the lamp's shade was torn and the fragile material greeted the unmoving wall.
The tall man fell to his knees, fingers returning to punishing his skull. He could feel the icy fingers of fear tracing his spine, in a way that was seducing and as if he was stripped of his garments. Jonathan's body trembled as the fingers wrapped around his neck stealing precious oxygen.
This was impossible. He was the master of fear, he feared nothing! No. Scarecrow was the master of fear; he was merely a vessel for the master. If that was so then why didn't Scarecrow stop this? Was he useless now in his insanity?
The room's door slammed open and there stood the true master of fear, the king that feared nothing, Scarecrow. Jonathan felt Scarecrow's rough gloves come between the choking fear and his own soft flesh. Vulnerable blue eyes stared into unforgiving grey as the fear was gently pulled from him, only to be pushed into a cage the Scarecrow could use whenever he pleased.
Questions raced and meshed together inside Jonathan's mind the longer he watched Scarecrow. He felt a shiver of fear run slowly, painfully down his spine, through his skin, and into his heart as the Scarecrow leaned down to whisper in his ear. Even through the burlap mask Crane would FEEL the smirk at seeing fear displayed so…deliciously. No words were spoken, but Scarecrow's lips moved, noticeable only by the slight movement of his mask.
Slowly fear ebbed out of Jonathan, and power replaced it with every second the Scarecrow spoke mutely. A shaky breath left the doctor as the master of fear seemingly faded into the shadows that birthed him. Everything was clear now. Scarecrow was his power and he was Scarecrow's physical manifestation. They were two halves of one great whole.
With grace he didn't process growing up, Jonathan stood. The aura rolling off him was a polar opposite of before. Power, confidence, and the will to avenge cloaked him, wrapped him in a warm essence that comforted him, assured him that Gotham was wrong and he was the embodiment of right. Gotham may have laughed like the teens of his past, but Crane got revenge. He would not allow the mediocre people of this rotting city to forget who he was.
Calculated steps guided him to one end of the room to the other. Two halves of a mask were held limply in both hands. He would see to it that his name, both Scarecrow and Jonathan Crane, was burned into everyone's minds. Screams would fill the air at the very image of him. Gotham would burn in the fire of his revenge. No more would he take their laughter, and with Scarecrow by his side and as a part of him all laughing would wilt under his gaze.