Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

A/N: Hey there! Did ya miss me? In all seriousness, I do apologize for the lengthy wait for an update. I hadn't been receiving as many reviews on my newer chapters as I had on past chapters, and I was concerned that maybe my writing wasn't as good as it could be and therefore people weren't interested in the story anymore. That left me feeling a bit insecure and uninspired, so I decided that I would take a break, clear my head, and think about what direction I wanted to take the story in and what I could do to improve it. I'm glad that I took the hiatus, because it allowed me to go over past chapters and see what both my strong and weak points are. I'm now much more confident in my writing, and I'm ready to resume working on this story. Anyway, enough babbling from me—I hope you enjoy the chapter! And thanks for sticking with me!

Ensnared

2004

"Are you sure that this is a wise decision, Dr. Crane?"

Warden Quincy Sharp wrung his hands nervously, his beady eyes darting about in his skull as he scanned the corridor near Arkham's basement door for signs of a hidden observer or any other concealed surveillance.

"There is no need to be anxious, Warden Sharp." Crane reached into his pocket and retrieved a large rust-stained key, its bow fashioned into an ornate baroque design curved around a large letter A and the words property of Amadeus Arkham etched along its stem in an elegant scroll. His fingers wrapped tightly around the cool iron, and for a second he allowed himself to savor the power that he held; he wondered how many hands the key had passed between in the years since Amadeus Arkham became imprisoned in his own asylum, and if those who had possessed it held even the slightest inkling of the power that Arkham could grant them. He imagined that they had been blind to the true potential of the asylum, unable to look beyond their position of meager authority to view Arkham in all its horrible and alluring splendor.

"But if someone were to see—"

Crane set his jaw in annoyance, trying his best to tighten his grasp on the last shred of his rapidly-dwindling patience. Sharp's unwarranted pomposity alone was difficult enough to tolerate, but his idiocy and constant paranoia was so overwhelmingly trying that more than ten minutes in his presence caused Crane's temples to throb from exasperation and often resulted in him developing a migraine.

"As I said earlier, Warden," Crane said coolly, sliding the key into the basement door's heavy lock as he spoke, "there is no one here."

He carefully turned the key, digging his teeth into his bottom lip in concentration as he rattled it about inside the lock. He had learned early into his nightly excursions that there was an art to unlocking the door, and that the process required a certain degree of skill and much persistence; before his very first venture into the basement, he had spent a tiresome hour fidgeting with the lock before discovering that a particular rhythm of twisting and turning was required before its internal mechanisms would yield.

"It is nine o'clock at night," Crane began. "Most of the doctors have left by six forty-five—myself notwithstanding, of course, but as you're well aware my circumstances are a bit, ahem, exceptional. The janitorial staff tends to finish their duties between six or seven, eight o'clock at the very latest if they have an especially grisly mess to contend with. Blood stains can be terribly difficult to remove."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That leaves the nurses and the security guards," he continued, unfazed by Sharp's interruption. "The nurses remain at their stations at all times, as asylum protocol dictates that patients must be transported to the infirmary ward for medical care, even in emergency situations. I've been told that patients were allowed to receive treatment at their cells in the past, but ever since a rather gruesome incident several years ago involving Mad Hatter and a young nursing intern...well, I'm sure that no one wants a repeat of that disaster. It cost the asylum nearly two million dollars in settlements to the girl's family, if my memory serves me correctly."

Sharp shifted uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed at the recollection; the attack had reflected poorly on both Arkham Asylum and himself, and the media had been relentless in their coverage, reporting the gruesome event as Gotham's gossip-mongers devoured every graphic detail. "I believe the amount was closer to one million," he mumbled defensively, and Crane smirked, delighted to have put a chip in the older man's overblown ego.

"Forgive my error," Crane replied smoothly. "Anyway, you needn't worry about the nurses interfering, and the guards will pose no issue either. I realize that you usually depart from the asylum no later than four-thirty and therefore have likely interacted with the night security on very few occasions..." Crane's voice trailed off as he paused to take in Sharp's sheepish expression and the pink tinge of humiliation on his cheeks, permitting himself a moment of smug enjoyment before resuming his explanation. "But it is common knowledge among the rest of us that they spend most of their shift playing poker and flipping through magazines in the boiler room, and I daresay that they'll be absorbed in their usual activities tonight while we set about our work."

"I was unaware that our security staff was so incompetent," Sharp said icily, clearly displeased with the revelation of his employees' lack of work ethic. "I've a good mind to go find them right now and—"

"If I may, Warden," Crane said, cutting Sharp's rant short, "I believe that action would be better suited for tomorrow morning. Right now we have more important matters at hand. Besides, their current preoccupation works in our favor."

"If you insist," Sharp said begrudgingly, unwilling to openly concede that Crane was right.

A sudden metallic sound indicated that Crane had finally succeeded in unlocking the door, and he pushed it open to reveal a set of cobblestone stairs descending into the basement; the absence of light made it appear as if the steps led into a dark abyss, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sharp shudder and tighten his grip on the flashlight that Crane had given him.

"Are you ready?" Crane asked the warden, pretending as if he did not notice the man's visible discomfort.

"What? Oh, I mean—yes, yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Sharp's arrogant bravado had returned, although he still clung to the flashlight as if it were a lifeline.

"Good." Crane shone his own flashlight onto the stairs, illuminating their path as he began his descent into the basement. "Watch your step. The condensation can make the cobblestone slippery."

He imagined the warden tumbling down the stars, an agonized scream of horrific pain ripping from his throat while his portly body twisted and broke as it hit each step before finally landing in a shattered, bloody pile on the basement floor.

All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put ol' Sharpy together again!

Crane giggled.

"What did you say?" Sharp's voice called out from several feet behind Crane. He had taken Crane's warning to unnecessary extent and was exercising an excruciating amount of caution with each step, clanking his cane against the cobblestone as he traveled down the stairs; Crane found the sound as grating as the warden himself, and he ground his teeth together as the noise bounced off the molding walls and reverberated through the stairwell.

"Nothing, sir," Crane replied, forcing himself to sound amicable.

They continued their journey in silence, save for Sharp cursing his flashlight's batteries when the light began to fade before disappearing entirely; upon reaching the bottom of the stairway, Sharp's face bore a bright red flush and glistened with sweat, his breathing labored as he gasped for air. He withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his slick forehead, looking somewhat ashamed of his inadequate vigor.

"I'm used to taking the elevator," Sharp said jokingly, managing a weak, embarrassed smile.

"It's alright. I'm not exactly a strapping picture of fitness myself."

The words had fallen from Crane's mouth before he even realized that he had spoken them. He had spent his school years being picked last for sports teams and stumbling through physical education classes, wheezing as he willed his spindly legs to move faster and his scrawny arms to be stronger. Billy Lee Walker had dubbed him "Clumsy Crane", a cruel and mocking nickname that he hated almost as much as "Ichabod". He could not help but feel sympathy for the sweat-drenched and panting warden before him; judging from his polished and soft demeanor, he imagined that Sharp had been equally inept at sports as a schoolboy and likely possessed an unfortunate nickname of his own.

This time Sharp's smile was genuine and warm. "Thank you, Dr. Crane," he said kindly, grateful for the empathetic gesture.

Crane cleared his throat. "Yes, well...shall we continue?"

He turned away from Sharp, scolding himself for his disgustingly sentimental admonishment. What were they, friends? Should they sit around and exchange sob stories and cry over how mean the big bad bullies can be? For all he knew, Sharp could have been one of those bullies himself—his earlier theory had been nothing but a mere guess. Maybe they could talk about their feelings and he could employ the same empty, uninterested "and how does that make you feel" line that he asked his patients during therapy sessions. He wondered what Sharp would think of his dysfunctional upbringing, or nights he spent in the Keeny atrium, or what he had done to Granny Keeny and Billy Lee Walker.

And how did that make you feel, Dr. Crane?

Right. Like he cared. Like anyone did. He wasn't even sure if he himself cared anymore.

Pathetic. Just a pathetic, fleeting moment of misplaced sympathy, and all because Warden Sharp wasn't in peak physical condition.

Pathetic.

"After you, Warden," Crane said, waving a hand towards a block of empty cells.

Sharp blinked in confusion. "You keep your research in there?"

"Of course," Crane replied smoothly. "Where else would I keep it? After all, nobody ever comes down here. It's the perfect place to stow away my secrets."

His eyes sparkled, the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a grin devoid of any cheer or pleasantry.

"Perhaps this would be better suited for another time," Sharp said hesitantly, remaining rooted to the spot. "I really should try to go catch those guards—"

"Do you remember our first meeting, Warden?" Crane interrupted, his voice like silk.

"W-what?"

"When we met, you told me that the only way to cure an infection is to cleanse it. Do you remember that?"

Sharp did not respond. It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that something was very, very wrong. He had allowed Crane to lead him into a trap, and one with no means of quick escape.

For the first time in his life, Quincy Sharp realized that he was a fool.

Crane turned to face Sharp, illuminating the warden's frightened face for the last time before switching the flashlight off and plunging them into darkness.

"During my research, I discovered that you were mistaken, Warden."

When Crane accepted his position at Arkham, he had decided that he would play along with Sharp's charade of superiority, providing his ego with enough nourishment to keep him both satisfied and unsuspecting; he had continued to play the warden's little game throughout his employment, choosing to stop only when the opportune moment that suited him had arrived.

This was that moment.

"It turns out that only way to cleanse an infection," Crane said as he dipped his hand into his coat pocket, "is to kill it."

Crane's fingers grazed across the burlap, and in the darkness Sharp began to scream.