AN: Yes it's that time of year again! Another chapter of Revenge Can Lead The Heart Astray! I wasn't going to watch TDKR and not go on a complete Batman spree, now, was I? Don't worry, no spoilers in this story since it's an odd clash of universes rather than strict Nolanverse, but y'know. You should definitely go see it if you haven't already.
The usual oh my god thank you for putting up with me, thank you for all the lovely reviews, and hopefully after this chapter stuff won't be so slow-paced, yes? Also sorry if this chapter is a bit Crane-centric but I really love writing him and, you know, slight platonic Crane/Scarecrow is cool C:

Keep calm and go watch Batman,

Glaerdrune XXX

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, there'd be a little more Crane and a lot more kissing ;D Which we'll get to at some point, cross my heart.

Now on with the story!

'I-I don't know nothin' about no small-time upstart in these parts, I swear, just put me dowowoooown!'

'You're sure you haven't heard anything,' came the low, gruff reply from the man in the cowl, who had decided to forgo the Library in lieu of doing some additional research during his familiar nightly routine.
The caped crusader shook the terrified man a little bit, and a handful of stolen wallets fell from within the folds of his jacket, colliding with the dampened streets so far below with the wet splats of ruined leather.

'Because there's a jail cell with your name on it, Jones, and it'll be even worse for you if you don't answer me.'

The petty thug and occasional dealer was lifted higher above the grubby slums, to his great dismay, resulting in his shrill vibrato cries of protest raising a whole octave.

'Oh God, oh God, okay okay I'll come quietly, geez. But I swear I ain't heard about no puny thief like that, nobody bothers with those greens 'acause they jus' get in the way of things around here, Jesus Christ jus' don't hurt me, Bats.'

There was a pause, as if Batman were processing the given information and weighing up its validity, before he acquiesced and pulled back, allowing the shaking criminal to swing freely.

'It's not me you have to worry about,' he growled in annoyance, 'You have your own crimes to pay for. You're an enemy of the law, and there are always consequences.'

The vigilante ended his sentence with a rough cough and a dramatic swish of his cape as he disappeared from the scene, leaving the poor man behind to dangle precariously.

The man swiftly shifted from terror to defeat at the sound of the sirens, as a cop car emerged from the distance.

'Aw, crap.'

Jonathan and Scarecrow's flawed, fiery desire to end Batman quickly and violently and immediately was decided too hasty and emotive to be rational; acting now could get him killed. Vengeance the like of which he truly wished to visit upon the caped crusader needed time, proper planning and structure in order to be successfully carried out. He should worry about his own wellbeing first, and that fucking rodent second. The Bat could wait.

Living arrangements for the moment were horrendous; expenses were covered by the meagre amount of money left around Crane's former apartment. Wishing to escape notice until he could get back on his feet and resume his operations, any large bank withdrawals were out of the question. Crane had answered an advertisement in a shop window concerning very cheap two-room tenancy by a bitter and articulate old landlady, who but for her kind manner towards him would have met with an untimely end, reminding him as she did of someone very close to home. As it was, her near-deafness proved useful to him; she was either oblivious to or easily accepting of the occasional night terrors, and the muffled screaming. She didn't notice the sudden shortage of her daily medication, either.
He was, thankfully, the only one apparently as desperate for such deteriorated housing; other tenants of the apartments blew by for a day or two, leaving again almost immediately and never extending their stay for long enough to irritate him. In return for the adequate living space, the Doctor would perform mundane tasks for his landlady, fiddling with the concentration in the soil of her potted plants, forming breathtaking compounds that put the average drain cleaner to shame, and generally keeping to himself. In her gratitude she would sometimes break his diet of ready-made plastic-coated meals by making him something even more godawfully tasteless, often leaving him thankful for what little income he could scrounge to buy the aforementioned microwavable foods. Jonathan had tried to cook his own meals in the past, but had quickly learned that though cookery appeared on the surface to be an extensively crude form of chemistry, when he tried to apply his knowledge of this to any use the results were… less than pleasant.

As for the issue of Crane's appearance: a self-inflicted and deliberately lopsided haircut-there was nothing better to focus the eyes away from the face-had been dyed a stark and hasty black, and with clear knowledge of his own most noticeable features, Crane had invested in a pair of dark coloured contacts. He didn't need his glasses for much more than reading; they had been an aspect of the typical studious Doctor persona that he had tried to replicate, if not embody, during his time at the top, and so getting rid of them was for the most part a wise move.

By the end of the ordeal Jonathan was, although still fairly recognisable, at least not immediately and obviously so.
Crane found he could function almost as normal in everyday situations, with only the occasional internal remark from Scarecrow reminding him of his extra bat in the belfry. Apart from the jumpiness and occasionally morbid comments, there were few outward signs of inner turmoil and the lasting impression that the fear toxin had made on his oh-so-delicate mind. The hallucinations had not stopped, but he was slowly getting used to them, and was becoming sadly hardened by the half-imagined caws and flutters in the darkest hours of night. Prone to bouts of insomnia, this was another aspect that the Doctor had grown accustomed to, and he did a lot of his deeper thinking and planning in the terrifying early hours of morning, while Scarecrow took his turn and huddled childlike under clammy, scratchy sheets.

His hopes for revenge had only grown with each passing day, the young man reminding himself of the cause of his current predicament, and in those idle hours had talked over strategies, and possible alliances-with those who had been similarly affected by the flying rodent's misguided sense of personal and self-inflicted justice.
Oh, Batman had his enemies. A plethora of them. Some of which, due to his time both at and in Arkham, he had more than a passing acquaintance with. There was no end to the selection Crane had to choose from. Pamela had her charms, though Jonathan had noticed it mostly in her scientific knowledge. He hadn't seen much of her from the wrong side of the asylum bars, but when he was still a practising Arkham doctor their private sessions had proved quite the thrill. Jervis Tetch had irritated him to no end, and many of his amicable conversations with Harvey Dent had been ruined by the Scarecrow's spats with Two-Face. Cobblepot didn't seem too happy to see him in the staple orange, after their previous confidential talks concerning the Penguin's obsession with birds and the sorrows of his broken childhood. And Killer Croc, that petty thug… well he was hardly even worth thinking about. Then there was the Joker, who seemed to have kicked off quite a lot of fuss at his big debut, and was most likely the godsent cause of the Arkham breakout. He seemed another fair candidate and worthy ally, if Jonny kept wary of his idiosyncrasies and… other personal habits.

Costumed villains aside, Doctor Crane still retained some of the older, more conventional contacts, despite Ra's' unfortunate demise. It should not prove too difficult to formulate a plan, with a mind like his, access to some of his old resources and a handful of such choice associates.

'Master Wayne, I think you should take a look at this.'

The dedicated butler handed his employer the morning's newspaper, turned crisply to the page headlined, 'Arkham's inmates out again, many still not found.'

Bruce sighed heavily, his head hanging with the weight of the revelation. A lesser man would be inclined to sob at the amount of work wasted, but at this point the playboy billionaire and his weary alter ego were more than used to the ups and downs of crime fighting.

'Thanks, Alfred,' he replied, before turning his attention to the printed sheet.

'The breakout occurred at approximately four o'clock on Tuesday morning, and is believed to have been brought about by fluctuations in the building's electricity causing some of the locks and emergency measures to malfunction. The matter is being looked into currently, and so far counted among the alleged escapees is the tragic former Arkham employee Doctor Crane (full story of the Gotham Narrows debacle covered in a previous issue), as well as a couple of crazed ex-mob members, the formidable Pamela Isley, Jervis Tetch, former attorney and unfortunate burn victim Harvey Dent, the eccentric Oswald Cobblepot and many other lesser-known patients, all of whom were being kept in separate cells in the west wing of the building, the partition for the criminally insane, when the security failed. Though it is thought that most of the escaping criminals have been confined to the Narrows, it would be ill-advised to leave your homes until these dangerous men and women have been found.'

Bruce ran a pained hand across his face, groaning with the anticipated exertion of capturing the criminals.

'Christ,' he exclaimed to himself, 'You guys are like batarangs. I stick you in Arkham where you all belong, and some freak just lets you back out again!'

Damn it, he would have to be on extra alert when he did his nightly rounds. He would not allow such dangerous criminal scum to roam his streets.

'Alfred, make sure the Suit is ready tonight. I'm afraid I might need to focus on getting these loons back behind bars.'

'Of course, sir. You can always count on me, sir.'

The days were hellish for Dr. Jonathan Crane. A lot of time was spent being decidedly bitter over his current situation, and at having to interact with such crude forms of human existence. At Arkham his expertise had garnered much respect from the orderlies, and in the Narrows his cruel streak had kept his henchman loyal, but what was there for him now? Exiled from his prestigious position to the torment of the outside world, he was judged by appearance over intellect, and he knew better than anyone that his appearance wasn't worth much. People cajoled him on the street, muggers deemed him an easy target, and society in general refused to accept him back into the fold. Like the bullies he had sworn to be rid of, they called him a queer and a scrawny waste of space.

Unlike his earlier years, however, Dr. Crane was more than comfortable with abetting any would-be attackers using vicious chemical means, and Scarecrow had a hoot turning potential threats into terrified test subjects.

Not that he had any breakthroughs to test out these days. It had been a hassle gathering enough manpower to get back into the drug trade to begin with, a move crucial in continuing his research, and getting his hands on the equipment needed for experimentation was proving incredibly difficult. His last reliable chemistry set had been destroyed in a search for evidence, and the Arkham sewer system, his old base of operations, was now understandably off-limits. There had been talk of Poison Ivy among the criminals under his employ, and if such rumours of Pamela's escape rang true, then there was no doubt she was a likely candidate to get him what he wanted. Indeed, as a botanist deeply involved in cross-species genetics, it was more than likely she would be able to get her hands on some basic essentials through use of her extensive contacts. Jonathan made a mental note to have a meeting arranged between the two of them; he was sure she would grant him this favour in return for the promise of Batman's hide.

For now, his business dealings were few and far between, mostly kept to the nights; conducted under cover of darkness and with a special degree of secrecy. As such, Crane found himself in the most detestable position of needing a legitimate job, if he ever wanted to get anywhere. A more stable income would allow him to procure supplies, and a respectable, if modest, career would keep him out of the eyes of the law for at least a little while longer. Crane had enquired about possible employment at several different retailers and a library, the latter of which kept him on for further inspection. After a short (and, of course, totally fabricated) interview in which he portrayed himself as the shy, kind-hearted introvert 'Andrew Phillips' through expert use of body language, he was now the Assistant Librarian at Gotham Public Library

It had only been two weeks on the job, but he liked the solitude. Nobody bothered him when he was working, not like that awful Rachel Dawes had all those times before. He even found the spare time to brush up on his chemistry when the place was quiet, which, in a way, was very often indeed. Scarecrow kept his distance during those times, crooning softly and petting dear Jonathan to make his presence known as the man flicked through pages in a dead calm. During moments like that he grew thankful for his other half's existence, banishing the shadows at the corners of his mind and making himself at home there, wearing Jonathan's crazy smirk like a second skin (just as Jonathan wore his).

Scarecrow simply tried to find a way to occupy his time. He hated the drag of the everyday, entertaining cruel fantasies and sometimes even vivid hallucinations of defeating Gotham's finest while his Jonny flashed them a falsely winning smile, yes please and thank you sir.

To combat this newfound stuffy boredom Scarecrow even helped Jonathan shelve, though somewhat detrimentally in order of obscure personal interest rather than the standard Dewey system. The books would be shoved back onto the shelves with perhaps more vigour than was necessary, and Crane could be seen to be muttering under his breath while performing the task; the only clear sign of his less than stable mental health.

He was currently sorting through the old records and newspapers kept for research by the facility, chuckling with a sense of pride at the article about his escapade in the Narrows, and relief that the press had left his picture out of the paper. There was a small degree of hope as he filed things away that he would find something that could help him get out of this unfortunate situation, though the possibility was far from likely.

Sliding yet another piece of print back into the space provided, an adjacent article caught his eye... something about the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, all those years ago. Not one to normally follow celebrity scandal, he had only a vague peripheral knowledge of the Wayne family, and had not personally been involved in arranging the recently generous donations to Arkham Asylum presented by the Wayne Foundation. No, he had been far too busy in his work with the 'patients,' and then busier still as a patient, to be up-to-date in the slightest with Gotham's favourite tragedy. The article however intrigued him, fascinated as he was by tricky psychological cases. Though not having seen the one surviving member of the billionaire family since his miraculous return, he had overheard rumour of- what was it, Brian? Robert? Benjamin?-Wayne's escapades from the giggling Arkham nurses, in between callously rejecting their uncouth advances. It seemed strange for such a violently orphaned child to appear so carefree as an adult with no outward sign of psychological trauma, especially one with the resources and social status available for some serious substance abuse. The residual damage must be internalised, but how did it manifest? It was true that Wayne's fear of abandonment and commitment issues were displayed through his reputation as a playboy, but he must have another outlet of some kind for what was no doubt an ingrained, constant anger at the people who-

Jonathan was cut off from his increasingly gleeful deconstruction of Wayne's psyche by a clipped cough at the front desk, and he looked over exasperatedly, setting the newspaper down and filing the Wayne case away in his head for another time. Sense told him there was more to the man than what was shown to the public eye.

Everyone's got skeletons in the closet, Johnny; us more than most, piped up Scarecrow, before erupting into laughter.

At Scarecrow's input, Crane merely sighed, shushing him with a click of his tongue as he moved back to the desk to greet the visitor.

The visitor in question, one Bruce Wayne to be exact, looked rather surprised at the lack of recognition from the young man at the desk. He had already tried to fend off several giddy library-goers to make it to the helpdesk, and had been bracing himself for another fawning fanboy getting in the way of anything productive.
The billionaire raised an eyebrow at the assistant librarian's unexpectedly disinterested attitude, who, when he bothered to look up from the main console, was looking down his nose at him as if through a pair of glasses.
The man twisted his full, pouting lips into a wry smile, tilting his head to observe Bruce as one would observe an unwanted house guest, condescension and distain evident in his eyes.

'Is there... something I can do for you?'

To be continued.

Remember kids, reviews are love! And more reviews means more motivation to write as I tell myself there are people actually reading this~