Jackknife Square was abuzz with activity late into the evening on the south end of Narrows Island just a few miles from the coast. Up until recently the square had been dominated by Falcone's lesser thugs, who had used it as a central haven to peddle drugs to the poor and the forgotten of the Narrows. But recently, since last night's terror, these minor thieves and criminals had been driven out by Falcone's alpha criminals – hit men, rapists and serial killers.

These escapees from Arkham Asylum, still clad in their neon orange jumpsuits, found mere sniveling amateurs in the square. Many of the criminals from Arkham didn't mince words or waste time with asking Falcone's underlings to leave – they just killed them and in the most brutal way imaginable, just to get warmed up and to enjoy the thrill of murdering once again.

Now this night they were huddled by the lit metal garbage cans, warming their hands, bragging about how many they killed the night before and how much they stole during the day. The more adept convicts no longer wore the Arkham jumpsuits, but also wore new clothing – undoubtedly from some poor victim.

"I killed three yesterday! It was so sweet," mumbled a convict in his mid-forties, wearing ill-fitting suit pants and a long coat. "They were screaming the whole time, begging for mercy."

"You call that killing? You f-cking wuss," spat another convict in his late 20s, dressed in padded blue jacket and paint stained jeans. "I killed six! Four were in the square, but then I thirsted for more – killed two just for fun."

"Is this a bragging contest? Don't make me laugh! I killed 10!"

The two convicts gazed at the intruder who came to the fire and recognized the dark gaze, the leathered skin and several old scars cutting across his arm and one in the cheek. It was Jimmy Fessanti.

"We know you have quite a reputation," grumbled the older convict, rubbing his cold-numbed hands. "But I think that's a lie."

"A lie, eh?" Swiftly Fessanti slipped out a nasty looking knife, its steel and jagged edges gleamed harsh and cold in the firelight. "Maybe I should slit your throat and silence your own foul lies!"

"Hey, I'm not saying you didn't kill all those men, Jimmy," said the older man. "Just warm up a bit, eh? No need to kill – not among friends."

"True, no need to kill, not us friends. Although you never helped me – not when I was in Arkham, George."

"How could I, how could any of us," cried the older convict George. "We were all lab rats to that madman Crane!"

"True, but if that's the case, perhaps you'd give me a token of your friendship now, maybe – your coat. Yes, I'll take that nice coat of yours."

"Jimmy, it's freezing out. I'm an old man; the bitter chill gets to me more than you young men."

A murderous rage flashed into Fessanti's eyes as he pointed the gleaming steel blade near George's throat.

"Your coat then or your life – your choice then – friend."

The old convict for a moment gazed at Fessanti, as if wondering briefly if he could take him down, then he sighed, realizing defeat, and slowly slipped the coat from his shoulders and gave it to Fessanti. Beneath the coat was little more than a thin cotton long-sleeved shirt. Fessanti almost grinned, the old man was sure to freeze tonight without that coat.

"Ah, thank you, my friend," Fessanti said, accepting the coat. "Your gift is much appreciated."

Fessanti then turned his eyes to the younger convict, who slowly was slinking away during the entire conversation with George, but he was not so far away from the fire and into the shadows that he could not see him yet.

"Tim Steppenport, leaving so soon? You are my friend, aren't you? And what token will you give me to prove your long lasting friendship?"

"Aw, Jimmy, you know I'm your friend – all those years with Falcone – all our good times together. Hell, remember that time –"

"Ah, you know I'm such a material man, Tim. I like proof, things in my hands, on my back!"

Fessanti maliciously tugged at his new coat while George groaned and already began to rub his arms and shiver, almost standing in the fire for warmth.

"Now the question is what gift would you give me? I already have a coat and I don't like your jeans at all – although seeing you running throughout the square in nothing but your underwear would be a sight, eh, George?"

"If-if y-y-ou s-s-ay so, Jim," George shivered.

"Ah, I know! Those aren't Arkham issue, are they?" Jimmy pointed his gleaming blade down at the asphalt. "Take them off now and give them to me."

"What Jimmy? I don't understand –"

"Your shoes! You must have stolen them from some store today and I want them!"

"I don't think our shoe size –"

"I'll give it a try, won't I?"

With venom in his gaze, Tim yanked off the new black shoes and handed them to Fessanti. They were beautifully contoured and an excellent sports shoe. When Fessanti laced them up and walked around in them not only did they fit, they felt wonderful. Fessanti took a glance at the brand stitched into the midnight black fabric:

Crane

Such a bad name for such an excellent shoe. I'll forgive them though, Fessanti thought.

"You have great taste in shoes, Tim, just like George here has excellent taste in coats." Fessanti relished seeing Tim standing in his socks on the asphalt, his toes curling from the cold. "You really have offered me wonderful homecoming gifts indeed. You have proven your friendship and spared your lives this night – a wise choice."

Fessanti slipped the gleaming blade back as easily as he withdrew it, even though he still saw the venom in both his colleagues' eyes. From a distance he heard a stirring in the camp and a faint clamoring of "Rain! Rain!"

That's odd. Not a cloud in the sky and a night this cold it should snow.

Fessanti turned his eyes as some of the former inmates of Arkham began to swarm around something. Pools of reddish orange light only illuminated a limited amount of space from the flaring trash cans and after that everything else could only faintly be seen by pale moonlight. Fessanti strained to see who or what was causing the commotion.

Even Victor Zsaz, coming back from his latest killing spree from Gotham City with tales of blood and chaos, wouldn't be greeted with such panic unless he truly had gone mad and began killing the other convicts here. Fessanti's blood suddenly ran cold at the thought, despite his new gifts. Fessanti was an experienced murderer, but Zsaz would be tough to kill unless Fessanti had a semiautomatic rifle, which right now he did not.

But suddenly the mass of convicts parted unexpectedly, as if in awe or terror and a bizarre aisle stood between Fessanti and a man sitting upon a black horse. Slowly, surprisingly hesitant for the death count Fessanti could boast of, he approached the man astride the horse and an eerie silence was broken by an occasional murmur or whisper deep within the crowd.

"It's Crane. He feasts on Fear and Pain."

"He would walk the halls of Arkham – all night."

"He would drink our Screams, eat our Terror"

"Then desire more!"

"Always hungering for more."

"He is the deep Emptiness. The Void."

"He never sleeps – never. He's not a man. He's a ghost."

"No. Not a ghost. An avenging demon – bringing Hell to Earth."

"And he's here – now. He's here – for us. Maybe to bring us to Hell for good!"

"Silence," screamed Fessanti.

All growing murmurs stopped and Fessanti grew bolder as he approached the man he knew of flesh and blood, the man of weakness, the man he knew brought a woman with him to Arkham Asylum one morning.

"This is no myth or demon! This is the stupid, weakling doctor who used us maliciously as lab rats in his twisted fear experiments! Have you forgotten it all? Or are you too stupid, brain damaged by his gas or guilt ridden to remember?"

As Fessanti grew closer he could see that the man on the horse wore the gruesome Scarecrow mask and his facial expressions were hidden from him. Fessanti was angry, feeling cheated somehow that the mask played to the myth and hid Crane's vulnerability.

"Ah, so you're a coward as well, Crane! Wearing a mask! Choosing to be 'Scarecrow' tonight? Don't you know Halloween is already past? Don't you know that riding a horse is so cliché? It doesn't make you look dashing, it makes you look like a moron who –"

Crane swiftly kicked Gunpowder's sides and he bolted straight at Fessanti. For a moment he stood, stunned at the charging horse and even more amazed at the roaring cheers that arose from the convicts. When he broke from his astonishment, he almost could feel the steaming breath of the stallion panting upon him and the sharp hooves bearing down upon him. His legs were pumping in his new sports shoes, trying to find a break in the thronging crowd, but as Fessanti was ready to find safety, the convicts closed the opening from him, their arms crossed, their eyes burning with rage.

Dammit, Jimmy, why did you make so many enemies?

The stallion's snout roughly nudged him forward, nearly tossing him hard onto the pavement; the horse's pace suddenly slackened as Fessanti desperately tried to keep up the pace.

Crane what are you doing? Are you leading me somewhere? Well I'm not playing any of your games. I'm not –

Again his concentration was broken and the horse's snout nudged him as a wayward colt. This time Gunpowder's pace quickened and a hoof grazed one of Fessanti's calf muscles painfully. He screamed and nearly fell, but continued to half run, half limp to the end of the square. Then when they reached it, Crane wheeled the horse around and he gazed at Fessanti, who now was panting and nearly doubled over, rubbing his calf.

"What? No words? Dr. Crane, the psychiatrist who always analyzed and dissected our minds now quiet? Speak damn you!"

Crane tightened the reins a bit and the silence was so deafening Fessanti could hear the leather creak.

"Your cell was the closest to her," Crane said. "I want you to tell me what you saw."

"The closest," Fessanti gasped. "The closest to who?"

"The closest to Mrs. – Crane."

"Crane?" A malicious smile slid over Fessanti's lips. "Ah, what a sweet son you are! You who drove your own mother mad! I bet you tested your own toxin on her, didn't you? She probably was your first lab ra–"

In a lightening flash Crane threw out his arm and a cloud of toxin veiled Fessanti.

"Now tell me, my little lab rat," demanded Crane. "Where is my mother and who took her!"

Fessanti choked for a moment, clutching his throat, he briefly gazed at Crane and his eyes grew wide in terror, then closed his eyes and began murmuring it wasn't real.

"Tell me," Crane hissed.

"No! I won't!"

"If you won't tell I will give you a stronger dose and you will be permanently insane! I will be doing Gotham City a favor, I assure you."

"Oh, no! Please no! I'll talk! I saw someone, just briefly. There were so many people. A man – a man in black. He took her."

"The Bat-man?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see clearly. There were inmates everywhere. But he was dressed in black – carrying her."

Crane lowered his firing arm.

"Thank you, Fessanti. That was all I needed to know.

Crane gazed upon Fessanti as he lay upon the pavement, thrashing at unknown terrors.

A man dressed in black, thought Crane. I doubt it is the Bat-man, but if he is trying to get to me, using my mother as bait, what better way to do it? Who else would it be? One of these scum here? Perhaps out of revenge for my experiments? No, none of the inmates were dressed in black, at least not then. Then who else would it be? One of Ra's Al Ghul's men? And why would they kidnap her? To keep her safe in my madness at the time of the breakout or maybe to use as ransom if I return? And who else, an unknown enemy perhaps – Syler or someone else trying to harm me and using her as a lure? Whoever it is, I've limited my options.

Crane gazed at Fessanti and saw two men busy stripping him of his shoes and coat. It hardly surprised Crane thievery was taking place before his eyes, it was on the level of this scum. Suddenly the low flickering firelight was replaced by a bright flare light and Crane whirled around to see bright headlights glaring at him.

"This is the Gotham City Police! Do not move! We have this area completely surrounded," trumpeted a bullhorn.

What the policeman tried to say next Crane couldn't hear because a sudden roar erupted from the convicts and pandemonium broke out everywhere. Inmates ran in every direction, trying to escape from the police, while gunfire erupted and teargas canisters clattered to the ground and hissed. Crane was thankful he still was wearing the mask and was close to the alleyway. He lightly kicked Gunpowder and led him away from Fessanti and out of Jackknife Square.

His hooves echoed loudly through the alley and the voices of the convicts and the harsh police lights faded into the distance. Gunpowder tossed his head a few times and pricked his ears as though spooked by something. Crane gazed down the alley and saw nothing but a few overturned boxes and some stray garbage, not even the occasional bum or drug dealer as could be expected so close to the infamous square.

"It's okay, boy," Jonathan whispered, patting Gunpowder's neck.

But the stallion nearly shrieked, tossing his head back, nose flaring and Crane looked up. He saw something black poised against the wall and in that instant that black thing flared out with huge bat wings and plummeted fast down upon him.

"Run!"

Crane jabbed his heels into Gunpowder's sides and the already frightened horse bolted, missing the massive bat a few seconds before they were enveloped by him. Gunpowder galloped out of the alley and they found themselves in a small triangular court where three buildings meet. From there two other alleys branched off and Jonathan made note of where they came from so they wouldn't become hopelessly turned around. Gunpowder panted nervously as a shadow emerged from the alley and took shape in the form of a human bat. The Batman, always with a taste for drama, paused for a few moments outside the alley and almost gazed at Crane in amusement.

"It appears your horse is afraid of bats," he said in his low, hoarse voice. "I can't say I blame him."

"I couldn't blame him either," said Crane angrily. "You frightened him by nearly falling on us. I don't mind you hurting me, but spare Gunpowder. He has no quarrel with you."

"Fair enough. Will you dismount then and face me on foot? That will make it equal for both of us."

"It never was equal for me, Bat-man. You think it's equal pitting a spectator against a wrestler? Or perhaps you would think it fair if someone with a fire hydrant was up against someone with a grenade? And I assure you those are poor comparisons!"

"Make your point, Crane!"

"I'm just saying I can't fight you in hand-to-hand combat and I don't have any of your high-tech toys, Bat-man."

"But if I recall you did a good enough job of gassing me with your Fear Toxin and setting me on fire."

Crane was silent a moment, then gazed at the man dressed as a bat before him.

"What choice did I have? You broke into my apartment, attacked my men, were stealing my drugs –"

"I was not –"

"And I had to protect what was mine!"

"It is useless to argue with the criminally insane, which you are Crane. You are going down, which I have sworn to do this night!"

Batman dramatically flared back his cape and ran toward Crane, but unexpectedly Gunpower reared, flashing his hooves. Batman stopped a moment before the horse, waiting for the stallion to return to earth, before approaching again. This time Crane took the lead as Batman approached and urged Gunpowder into a charge. The Dark Knight had to quickly lunge out of the way so not to be trampled by the stallion.

"Crane! Quit your games! Stop being a coward!"

"A coward? Who's the coward now, Bat-man? Resorting to petty criminality yourself?"

"What madness are you talking about?"

"Kidnapping, Bat-brain! A woman in her late 40s from Arkham Asylum. Do you know anything about that?"

"I must have given you too much of your own medicine, Crane – or should I call you Scarecrow now? You truly are mad."

"If you don't have her then I must find her."

"One of your own patients? I didn't know you had such fondness for your test subjects. But no matter. Tonight I'm taking you into Gotham City P.D. You will look for no one except inside the Gotham City Penitentiary."

"If I don't look for her now she will be lost forever," Crane spat.

He turned his horse to leave, but a sudden explosion erupted behind him, a small bomb thrown by Batman. Gunpowder reared, shrieking and Crane, not expecting it, felt himself sliding off the stallion's back and felt a terrible crushing thud as he fell heavily to the asphalt. Through the haze, Crane felt a mixture of pain, sadness, anger and terror as he saw Gunpowder race off down one of the alleys in fright.

"Now that that absurd jousting match is over with, come along quietly," Batman said.

He approached Crane, his dark cape sweeping in back of him, but as Crane struggled to get up he felt a terrible pain in his left rib. He began to push himself away from Batman on the asphalt, struggling to make it to his feet.

"Crane, don't make this harder. You're injured. Now I'm taking you to the police."

"No," Crane gasped. "I must find her."

Batman reached out to firmly grasp Crane, but he twisted away, indignant at Batman's touch. The two stood in silence a moment, staring at each other in that dark square, neither of them moving.

Swiftly Batman moved on Crane and Crane felt a sharp blow to his jaw, feeling the hot, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. For a moment his vision almost swam into black unconsciousness and he felt himself sinking to the pavement. Never did he feel such a sharp, swift blow, as if Batman's fist was welded out of steel and the blow was a hammer strike.

Paying me back from setting you on fire, are you, Bat-man, he vaguely thought.

The concrete hit his back sharply as he fell to the ground and he saw Batman loom over him and the serrated edges of the gauntlets, wondering if he could be cut by them.

Quit laying there like a victim, a rag doll! Think, Crane!

His fingers vaguely fumbled on his right arm as his breathing grew labored from the pain and his vision swam in and out of black unconsciousness.

"Fear Toxin won't help you now," Batman muttered. "Not anymore."

He could feel Batman's strong gauntlets gripping him and his body begin to leave the cold, hard pavement.

If I am taken and imprisoned I will never see her again.

He feebly opened his eyes and even as his vision swam through the pain and he struggled to lift his arm, Batman gripped him tighter, trying to keep him from moving.

"What are you doing, Crane? You can't win."

"I don't have to win. I just have to save this time."

And drawing on what seemed like the last of his strength, he slightly lifted his arm against what seemed like Batman's limitless power and released the invisible sleeping gas from the toxin mechanism concealed in his wrist. Batman turned, anger in his eyes, but then that anger dulled and his eyelids drooped, and Crane felt his grip weaken upon him. Suddenly Batman's legs crumpled beneath him and Crane was dropped a third time to the ground. He mercifully fell on his good rib, but it still hurt nonetheless and he bruised his arm.

For a moment in the pain, his legs not wanting to respond, his left rib aching in terrible pain with each breath, he slowly got to his feet and gazed at Batman who looked so surreal, a massive black heap of cape, steel and body armor. In curiosity Crane almost was tempted to remove the mask, wanting to know who it was, just as Batman had so rudely ripped off his mask back at Arkham as Scarecrow, but no. He had more pressing matters to attend to and he was injured – time might be of the essence now.

Crane gazed at the three alleyways, trying to surmise which path Gunpowder took and wondering if it would be possible to recover him now or if he had escaped from him for good. He now was faced with a terrible choice; go down one of the alleys where unknown danger lurked in pursuit of Gunpowder or turn back to Jackknife Square, which was swarming with police and certain capture.

I can't be captured now – not yet. She might die if I end up in a prison.

(She might die if you get killed too.)

It was Scarecrow – the first time Jonathan heard his voice since he shoved him back into his subconscious, but he knew repressing him didn't mean destruction and that he would return. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he heard from him again, but he would not listen to Scarecrow, not anymore, not since that fateful night when he hijacked his mind and body and kidnapped Emily.

No. I won't listen to you, not ever again.

Jonathan turned his back on the alley leading back to Jackknife Square and entered the unknown, dark alley he believed Gunpowder ran into.