Nothing surrounded him, literally. It was not that it was dark or bright, and neither hot nor cold for that matter, he just did not seem to receive any input. Pure consciousness floating in an empty nothingness. In fact, this condition was highly unsettling.

"What is being played here", he wanted to scream, but lacked the lips to do it.

However, someone, or something, had heard him. "You know where you are, am I right?"

At once a million of thoughts ran through his non-existent head. First, he began to realize that he was dreaming. A dream within a dream, of sorts. Assuming this, he had consequently expected to face his alter ego, who enjoyed haunting his nightmares to a dismaying degree. Instead, the incorporeal voice sounded totally alien to him, and it was free from any distinguishable emotion. Slightly frustrated, he thought, "The hell I know! I'm somewhere near Gotham within a radius of 150 km and apparently, I'm still hallucinating. And who are you anyway? I demand that you answer my question!"

"Wrong place, you know exactly where you are. By the way, your home town has yet to be built. I apologize, but I cannot grant your request."

"You cannot– do you even have the slightest clue who you are addressing? I won't be toyed with!"

"Be assured that I am aware of that. If you cooperate, you will be sent back sooner than you think."

"Oh really. And what if I refuse to'cooperate'?"

"You of all people will understand that I took some precautions for this case."

A second, almost panicking voice materialized in the void, a piercingly familiar one. "Jonathan? Where are you? For Queen of Hearts's sake, somebody help me!"

"Jervis! What did you do to him?" If he had had some, his pupils would have widened.

"There is no need to worry. If you fulfill your task, he will be save."

"I don't care for him."

"This is a lie. I did my research, and you cannot deny that he is the one closest to what people call a friend."

"…" Granted, the voice had a point. "What am I to do?"

"You will learn it soon enough. But in case you are too eager to wait for the solution, I take the liberty to give you a helping hand. They say two heads are better than one, and consequently two minds in one head should be unbeatable."

"Wait, can't you be a little more specific?"

"Wake up. Wake..."

"...up, Monsieur, please! It is time."

Someone was shaking his arm with soft insistence. Immediately Jonathan jolted up. An intensely white light blinded him for a few seconds before he recognized it as snow glaring in the sun. He had difficulties remembering last night's events, but certainly he was in more trouble than he had thought. Obviously, he was still stuck in the 19th century, for he saw the stranger standing before him, being about to exit the carriage with his hand resting on the door knob.

Finally, Crane was able to perceive his full person, which was enough to distract him from his gloomy worries about the dream he had had.

Besides the black beard and the hat – it turned out to be an astrakhan cap – he had spotted earlier, the man had piercing eyes of a remarkably clear, saturated green and ebony skin. His body was cloaked in a long overcoat of felt. Presently, he had an odd expression in his eyes when he said, "I will get out here – what is your destination, if I may ask?"

Uhm... "I want to visit the Paris Opera House," he replied spontaneously. That book! The answer had to lie somewhere between its pages, so the opera was a place to start. But was he still in Paris? Alarmed, he forgot about the watch at his wrist and tried to estimate the hours he had spent sleeping.

"I guessed as much... It is close, about ten minutes of walking from here," the man uttered, apparently lost in thought.

Jonathan's momentarily relief was quickly replaced by surprise. "Really?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow in disbelieve. How could he possibly know where I need to– Not until now the villain noticed that "The Phantom of the Opera", which he had deliberately turned upside down to hide the title, had been moved. In its current position, the silvery letters were clearly readable. Quickly he picked it up and and tried to stand, instantly flinching when his head hit the low ceiling. Ouch!

The stranger could hardly repress a smile. "Watch out, I daresay you are unusually tall," he remarked with audible amusement. Then he threw his hands up and let them fall again as a gesture of apology. "I must confess I was curious," he explained, returning to his original topic, "I couldn't resist seeing what it is that you were clutching like a treasure when I met you in the street. I assure you, I merely read the title."

The two men stepped out of the carriage. In the meantime, it had stopped snowing. Crane watched the stranger throw a few coins up to the driver, who caught them with a simple, aimed movement of his hand he had learned from habit, and dashed off without hesitation. The man with the emerald eyes spoke up again, but this time the tone of his voice was serious. "You do not believe in the rumours of the ghost, do you?"

"I–" Well, what should he say? Crane could hardly tell the man that he was a time-traveller from the future, and neither that he doubted all this was really happening. Even the mere thought sounded too crazy. What he needed was a good story. "I am not sure about it. You see, I am a scientist from a remote country and I have a great interest in the myth of the opera ghost. For my private research." So far, so good. In fact, everything he had said was true, in a way.

"A scientist, you say? What is the purpose of your research?"

Terrifying the ignorant beyond sanity! , something in him blurted out with delight. Jonathan pretended not to notice it. "Proving that there are no chain-rattling ghosts but only humans with a superior mind."

Something in this statement shocked his bearded opposite. Immediately, the villain witnessed the jade-green pupils narrow and the expressive, black brows furrow. "How come you are so sure the Phantom is human?" At once, all kindness was gone.

Suddenly, it struck Crane that he had no clue how much of what he had read in the novel was public knowledge and how much was interior secrets only the characters could know. If it was true at all in this world, that is.

"I'm not, it's just my general creed," he corrected, which seemed to satisfy the stranger.

Good explain-away, an unwanted comment resonated in his head. Again Jonathen refused to take notice. His eyelid twitched with the effort.

"Monsieur, we should talk again sometime. I am eager to hear of the results of your work. For now I bid you a good day, for it is indeed a horribly cold morning. If you need me, just go to the opera down the alley" – the man pointed in direction of the entrance of a small street nearby – "and ask for 'the Persian'. I'm a regular there."

Interesting – so this was where the indefinable accent came from. Had he not heard of him before? Jonathan could swear that it was mentioned as a character in "The Phantom of the Opera". He made a mental not of reading beyond chapter twelve as soon as he would find time to spare. A contact like him could prove useful, he realized. "Agreed, thank you. So to them, you are only known as 'the Persian'?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The staff is not fond of my presence, I'm afraid." The Persian shrugged with indifference. "I much prefer to be called by my name, Nadir Khan. How can I address you, by the way?"

"Jonathan Crane's the name," he replied without thinking. Well, the people here could hardly know his future history – what a paradox term! – so there was in fact no real need for an alias.

"Well then, . I'm looking forward to our next meeting." With this, the Persian turned and headed for a market square in the distance.

Just nano-seconds later – literally – he heard a snicker, a dreadfully well-known one, which was, as he had learned in his early twenties, only audible to him. After the conversation in his dream, he had feared it would appear. At last, he was not able to ignore it any longer.

No, why you?, he thought and rolled his eyes, exaggeratedly agonized.

Missed me? the presence cooed, as annoyingly mocking as ever.

For two-and-a-half decades, presumably much longer, he had been sharing his body with this being which called itself 'the Scarecrow'.

Already before he had earned his master's degree in psychology he had known that having an alter ego was not exactly normal. Even now he was not entirely sure what had caused it (meaning that he couldn't quite decide which of his childhood traumata back in rural Iowa was responsible), but it had coined him from the very beginning. Offering mental support, occasionally brilliantly creative ideas, a mind he could talk to instead of aforementioned wall, but mainly superfluous comments, the Scarecrow shared a great deal of his personality and wishes – mostly.

Unfortunately, the Scarecrow could be horribly moody and, being as obsessed with fear as he was, come up with the most terrifying scenarios. Sometimes Jonathan consulted it as an inspirational source for his plans, sometimes he didn't, which always resulted in punishment in the form experiencing these firsthand in nightmares. He had gotten used to it by now and had stopped letting it affect him in any way. Usually, he pushed the Scarecrow back to a remote corner of his brain where he could ignore it until needed.

Still, in the end he had chosen his modus operandi and his nickname as a criminal, if not his whole life, based on it, despite the trouble. After all, this supported the split-personality-theory as the reason why he was always declared legally insane and, like most of Gotham's rogues, ended up in a madhouse instead of a common jail. As much as he found this insulting, it bore several advantages such as the fact that it was much easier to escape from there.

Presently, Jonathan tried his best to push the Scarecrow away again, but against all odds it would not work. Surely that voice from his dream had something to do with it! This second mind was rather a burden than being of assistance.

Why go home when there's a whole new century to subject? C'mon, scary-face, let's have some fun! the Scarecrow started being helpful.

It continued rattling on about new possibilities and delusional power fantasies while Jonathan was fighting his growing headache. He sighed with resignation. This was going to be funny as hell.

A/N: It was bothering me that due to the balancing act between Batman and Phantom story, there was just no Scarecrow-y feeling in the writing. I hope to have fixed this with this chapter. On another note, I'm going to illustrate all chapters. I'll tell you when the first one is finished.
As always, thank you for reading, and if you have any comments, thoughts etc, I'd be happy if you shared them with me ;)