Scared, Scarecrow?

BLURB: - Set after Batman Begins. Jonathon Crane has been arrested finally for his crimes upon the people of Gotham. Batman has ordered him to be taken to the mad prison. What Wayne doesn't know is that Crane's going to receive some of his own medicine. NOTHING to do with the Joker in this. Because I can't be bothered. xD

SHORT BLURB: - Dr. Crane is captured and arrested, sent off to an asylum prison to receive some of his own medicine… Nolanverse

DISCLAIMER: - I do not own the Batman Universe, or Dr. Crane (;-;) or Cillian Murphy DX

NOTE: - You might want to start from the beginning of this fic now, if you're a first time reader you would have done that anyway, but if you're an old fan and you haven't re-read the first three chapters recently, I advise you to do that, because I've rewritten them (well, kind of. It's mostly editing).

Also, this might be kind of shitty. It's hard to concentrate sometimes when there is background noise. :(

Chapter Four

"Here's your breakfast, Master Wayne… oh and there was also a message for you this morning on the answer machine – a Doctor V. Simone would like you to swing by this afternoon. It's already half ten, so you had better get a move on Sir."

"… what… oh, thanks Alfred."

Bruce blinked a couple of times, un-blurring his eyes of the veil of sleep that had settled over them. He gobbled the breakfast Alfred had brought him – two bacon sandwiches with brown sauce, washed down with squeezed orange juice. He then washed, dressed and prepared his Lamborghini for a fast drive over to the suburbs of Gotham. Doctor Simone would probably expect him to be a few minutes late, but if that was the case then Bruce wanted to arrive in style (hence the flashy car chosen for his outing).

"Look after the mansion while I'm gone, Alfred."

"As usual, sir?"

"Yeah… could you make more of those sandwiches for when I get back?" Bruce tossed him a winning smile.

"Anything for you, Master Wayne." The aged butler gave him a nod, a single wave and turned to retire inside. The billionaire revved the engine and slammed his foot onto the acceleration, screeching off around the circular patch of grass at the front of the mansion and through the wrought iron gates.

"I'm sure you have a lot of valuable contacts, Bruce, so I wanted you here so I could ask if you could track down some people for me."

Wayne appeared puzzled, but nodded. "Who exactly do you want me to find?"

"It's just a few people – here, I have a list… - just anyone who knew Crane when he was at college. Any old acquaintances, study buddies, professors, classmates… you know the drill." Vincent handed him a piece of paper with some possible locations and the addresses. Nodding, Wayne clapped Simone on the back.

"Of course, as long as they will be able to add anything to your research. How far have you got with him?"

A mix of expressions passed over Simone's lined face. "It's… hard to tell. This is a difficult process; I'm sure you can appreciate that, Bruce. A guiding hand is a help, but time is the greatest healer. Give it a few months and I'm sure we will be able to reintroduce him to society. But it's better he stays here for now. So you will do this?"

"As soon as possible. I pretty much know Gotham inside out…" With a nod and an ironic smile, Bruce left, departing first for where Jonathon Crane used to live.

It turned out that the group of flats were derelict and disheveled; although there were still signs of life. The line of overflowing wheeled bins stood proudly like guards at the door; the few lights behind tatty drawn curtains. They all told Bruce to continue. The sun was beginning to set sending a watercolor of reds and golds across the clear sky. He parked up a few yards away and walked in his crisp suit up to the lobby door.

He pressed the intercom device and told the receptionist he was visiting a friend. Strangely, this excuse worked. Bruce didn't linger; this was not Batman's job, it was his. So he should stop thinking like Batman, and think like Bruce Wayne. There was not always a rival behind every corner, lurking in every shadow. His 'adventures' with Batman had set his mind into an almost paranoid state. Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets and strode through the door, waving and smiling at the receptionist as he passed her.

She was as disheveled and neglected as the flats she worked in. Her glasses were dusty – requiring a good clean – and their beaded string hung loosely around her neck. She must have been in her early forties, although she looked at least fifty-five. It was as though she was waiting for a hero to come and whisk her away from the dreary desk she sat at day in, day out. Well, that hero wouldn't be Bruce… unless…

"Excuse me," he began politely, "I was wondering if you had any records of the previous Crane family…?"

"I'll have to check the database." Her voice grated in his ear like nails down a chalkboard. Up close he could see her face was plastered with a multitude of cosmetics; cracked dry lips had been slathered with a dull brown in the hope of giving them some of their old plumpness. Her eyes were endorsed with a powdery blue eye shadow and her lashes caked with lumpy black mascara. The end result was not all that inviting.

"Yes, we have a Crane family."

"… have?"

"Yes, they live at number twenty-five on floor three." Bruce let out a relieved sigh that sounded like it had been trapped in there for some time.

"Thank you." He raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, until he came to floor three. The carpet up here was a faded red with small gray diamonds puncturing it now and then. In some patches it was sticky with an unknown substance, so he minded his footing while he inspected the doors along the corridor. Room twenty-three was, of course, at mid-point, and he rapped on the peeling paint with his middle knuckle.

He hadn't been expecting an answer, because he had stood there for at least two minutes before the door creaked open a slit. Through it Bruce could barely see an elderly lady and a barking Jack Russell terrier at her heels. She bade him in without question, tottering over to the television set which stood next to the fireplace. She switched it off and turned to look at him, standing gazing up at him.

"… Is this about the electricity bills?"

He wanted to laugh, but he suppressed it and smiled warmly instead. Bruce took a step forwards and placed a hand on her small shoulder. She was the size of a dwarf compared to him. "No, ma'am, my name is Bruce Karlson, and I've come to see you about your son." It was better that he concealed his true name from her – thankfully she lived in the suburbs, where his face was less common. His name was still as famous here as it was back in central Gotham though, and he wanted this confrontation to take as little time as possible. It would only complicate things if he had her flapping about around his ankles singing his praises.

"Oh! That failure left long ago. He doesn't live here anymore." She shook a hand in his direction and turned away, walking at the pace of a sloth towards the kitchen this time.

Bruce cleared his throat. "I know, we… have him at Sillforth Asylum."

She let out a bark of laughter, and sounded exactly like her dog. "HA! That's where he should have gone years ago! Instead Dave and I just kicked him out, disowned him in fact…"

"And why was that?"

Her next answer came from the kitchen, partly drowned out by the sound of the boiling kettle. "Why did we want nothing to do with him? He's a madman, Mr. Karlson, incase you had not noticed. He just… changed."

"When did this happen?" Bruce kept the questions coming thick and fast, always ensuring they were the right ones.

"Oh… it must have been about the time he started secondary school. It was Arkham Secondary. Yes, I remember. He was never happy there. I don't think he fitted in too well. He had some issues with making friends. I know teenagers can be a bit anti-social sometimes but it was as though something was telling him to keep away from everyone else at school. I really don't know what got into him…"

She brought two cups of tea out into the front room, handing Bruce one. He politely declined, coupling the rejection with an excuse that he had to go soon (a previous engagement). She shrugged. "I'm sure Dave will want it, he'll be back here soon. Did you want me to tell him you'd been round?"

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd rather you didn't. But I'm sure that won't stop you from bringing it up in natural conversation," Giving her another homely smile Bruce turned towards the door, his hand poised on the handle. "Give him my regards."

She waved behind her to see him off as she was switching the television on again. Bruce decided that he didn't need to check out any of the other addresses; he had basically all the information he needed. The neighbors would no doubt either no longer live here, or would just claim 'he was always an odd boy; we never really saw much of him'. Instead, Bruce headed towards the library near Crane's old school. It was strange to know that the district where Arkham asylum had been was near where Crane had grown up. Perhaps that was what had influenced the boy's career.

He thought, as he drove up to it, that it was shut, but even at half past nine in the evening Arkham library remained open. Bruce trotted up the stairs, leaving his car in a parking lot nearby.

His first observations told him this much: that there was one librarian sorting shelves, and another sitting at the desk next to the door. He looked up from where he sat. "Hello, can I help you?" Wayne had expected a crabby spinster; instead he was greeted by an old-timer and his almost toothless smile.

"Yes, do you have records on your database from… say, fifteen years ago?"

"Ooh now, that's a hard one… but we should do. Give me a minute." Instead of tapping into the computer, he wheeled his chair over to the shelves behind him, pulling out a few dusty brown binders. "Lets have a look then, what name are you looking for sonny?"

"Crane, Jonathon Crane."

"Ah, a regular! I remember that young lad. He used to come here all the time and just sit reading the books. Didn't take much out, mind, but he loved to sit here and… ah, here we go." He turned the binder towards Bruce. His eyes scanned the page for the name. It stood out among all the others like a sore thumb.

How to make your own carnival mask Halloween costumes A Study of the Human Mind Psychology and You

All of the books followed the same themes; either something to do with costumes, or masks, or how-to-do books, or things to do with the brain and how it worked psychologically. "Right, thanks for your time." Nodding at him in acknowledgement for his help, Bruce left the library. A thin drizzle met him as he stepped out of the library. Dashing to his car Bruce started up the engine and drove off, heading home.

He would present this information to Dr. Simone in the morning.