Warning. This chapter's introduction is pretty fucked up.

Disclaimer: In no way does this chapter reflect my own political, philosophical or religious views.

"Have compassion for all beings, rich and poor alike; each has their suffering. Some suffer too much, others too little."
-Buddha

One thing Crane loved most was watching people die. It was fascinating. He had first become interested as a small boy; he would secretly watch the video's his dad hid in the back of his parent's closet. Crane, as an adult, now knew that these videos were hardcore sadomasochist pornonography. However, as a child, he wasn't much interested in the sex or the naked bodies (he wasn't a pervert) it was when the people died. Now that was cool. He remembered that feeling he got, watching some fluffy-haired blonde broad choking to death on a dildo, or that guy who was flayed to death by some Dracula-looking girl wearing nothing but a leather thong and high heeled boots.

It was a great feeling, the Really Great Feeling; it was like, little explosions in the bottom of his stomach. He would rewind the tapes over and over again, his face right next to the screen and closely observing at the porn stars faces just before they kicked it.

Then, slowly, after a few months, he grew bored, and the feeling went away. He contented himself with killing small bugs, and when he could catch them, small birds and rodents. All the while he would grin; humming nursery songs his nice teacher had taught him, as the creatures squealed in pain ad struggled desperately in his grip.

So, by stashing his poor, cheap porn in such a boring hiding place, Cranes father had helped put his son on the path of his destiny. It was the only thing his son was ever grateful to him for.

When Crane was in his early teens, he discovered video nasties. He was very grateful to them to; films like 'I spit on your grave' were a real comfort in those awkward times After a day of dealing with stupid teachers who didn't understand his genius, zombie class mates and the usual idiot bullies who thought they were too good for him, it was a pleasure to go home, watch a video nasty and envision each of those fuckers getting the comeuppance they truly deserved.

Again, Crane wasn't particularly interested in the sex (he wasn't a pervert and completely disagreed with rape; rapists were sick people as far as he was concerned, and should all be hanged) no, what he liked was the death and torture. The victims screaming and begging and weeping; then as their eyes closed, their final breaths exhaled, Crane would get that Really Great Feeling again.

However, it was when he was in his mid-teens that there was a significant change; Johnny discovered snuff films, and boy did that open up a new world! Crane had an epiphany when watching his first one; Crane finally realised that he had been wasting all these years analysing the fake deaths of fake people; how stupid! It didn't mean anything if they were not real, were not truly frightened. It was then that Johnny began to scare the children at school, when he began to distinguish between the weak, easy people (like Tetch) and the evil thugs he should leave alone should he want to live (like Dent.)

Everything about the fear, the scent of nervous sweat, the shaking bodies, the sighs and gasps- all of those things enraptured him. Ever wanting a bigger hit, his obsession with fear and death grew and grew. But watching people die, until he finally succumbed to his beautiful and powerful alter ego, the Scarecrow, he had been stuck with snuff films and his own fantasies.

In the current timeline, Crane stared avidly at the prison guards. Cocksmore was putting up a fight, he was screaming, yelling at the Mad Hatter, he even turned and began to plead to Crane, "God, please, man, please. I know I wasn't always the best guy, but it's stressful here." Oh man, Crane grinned, Cocksmore's beginning to cry, hahaha...

"Please, I have a child and a wife. Please, for their sakes. Everything I did, taking on this job, taking all the pressure, the daily fear, I did it so I could feed 'em, send my little girl to school, get 'er an education and outta this city...please...please..."

Croc snarled as it loped towards them. Cocksmore began to pray.

"Please, God please, I'll do anything. I can change, you'll see, I'll be a changed man, I'll help you both, please, please..."

Hanson, on the other hand, wasn't doing anything. He was like a doll, his head leaning on one shoulder, his eyes wide and unblinking. It was as if his brain had shut down; Hanson was no longer even there.

As Croc slowly entered the room, doubtless curious but suspicious, Crane backed into the hallway and looked at Hatter. The blond man was looking at Croc; it was strange, his eyes were normally quite human, when he was Tetch, they were full of various emotions and shades. But as Hatter, his eyes looked as if someone had coloured them in a standard blue pencil. There was nothing there, nothing...

Closing the door, Crane was left alone in the C-Block hallway, surrounded by cells and distant screams. It was up to Hatter now.

"Damnit Clark, no!" Perry yelled, lighting his cigar.

"But Chief, Arkham has..."

"Arkham is always being taken over by the lunatics!" The hot headed man interrupted. Clark gulped, Perry didn't have the best health and often seemed over stressed. "In fact, I think most of the time the lunatics are running that Asylum. We have Luther to worry about, Kent! His popularity is soaring and nearly every paper has sold out to him." He motioned to a disarrayed pile of rival newspapers on his desk; all of them had a grinning Lex Luther on the front with headline proclamations of him being a great President if elected. "We are the only one's telling the truth about that waste of space! I'm not having my best man running off in the middle of the presidential campaign."

Unconsciously, the Chief picked up a picture of his family, whilst still berating Clark. In the picture were his wife and their son Jerry. A few years back, Perry White found out that the boy he had raised and thought of as his own was in fact Luther's son. The news had crushed him, and he had never really recovered. His hatred for Luther had escalated to a very personal vendetta, sometimes Clark wondered if the man hated Luther more than he did. Times like now made it seem very likely.

"Chief," Clark kept his voice low and calm, the voice he used whenever people were in a stressful situation, like trapped in a burning building or stuck in a closed space with a bomb. He found that at least one calm voice was usually enough to restore rational and reasonable thinking. That in turn, bought about hope...but still. "Chief, I understand all of that. I promise you that my heart is in this campaign and making sure Luther stays out of Office. However, Gotham is right next door to us. The Daily Planet sells well in their city, the only paper from Metropolis that does. We have a good relationship with Gotham readers, which is rare. I don't want us to alienate them like so many other papers do. Often the people are completely ignored and left to fend for themselves, and I know from my sources that Luther has a bad reputation with them. They think that as soon as he is in power, he will be the only, or first, president ruthless enough to expel them from the U.S. They're scared and angry. I'll only be gone for a few days," he continued as Perry put down the photo to turn and look at him. "And you still have your best reporters working on the Luther campaign. I'll be back in two days, tops, I swear."

"Why should I send you, my best man? Why not Jenkins or Beckford?"

"Because they're not well known enough in that city, and I'm sure they have no contacts. The moment they hit Gotham streets, the people will recognise their accents. Then we know what will happen, robbery at best..." Clark trailed off. There was a reason why people from Metropolis (or any part of America) never, ever travelled to Gotham. Many Metropolis journalists, trying to find out about the Falcone gangs, or, even worse, the Rogue Gallery, entered Gotham and were never heard of again. The other ones that were found were either found dead or had become part of the gangs and violence and madness they were meant to be reporting on. Now there was even an insurance policy for going into Gotham.

"Of course you do have friends and contacts in Gotham don't you?" Perry sat down behind his desk. While he was no longer shouting, Clark realised he was still on the defence; Perry was angry and frustrated, and Clark had just managed to exacerbate that with his request to go to Gotham.

"What do you mean, Chief?"
"Don't play dumb. Let me guess, your powerful friend Mr Wayne called you up about this didn't he? No one else knows about the break out, why? Because no one cares. It's a daily occurrence in that city! " Clark squirmed, a little uncomfortable with how callous his boss was being about the plight of Gotham; Chief did have a point, but still...

"I know that Wayne's enterprises loses some of its power in the stock market every time this disaster happens." Perry sighed and wiped his brow. "The entire city's economy is going to shit because of those damn rogues and their fun."

"People are dying Sir," Clark mentioned quietly, hoping to bring the humanity back into the Chief. "There's starvation, mass homelessness, tribalism. It's not America, it's like a third world nation there."

"And what is you going there going to achieve, Clark?"

"Hope Chief!" Clark replied quickly and emotively. Of course, Clark knew he was talking about the hope his alter ego would bring also. "To know that they aren't forgotten, that we don't think they are important." He looked back at the papers, "we need them on side, as most of Metropolis is on the side of Luther."

"Yeah, great, great, no one listens to reason except for the inhabitants of the most unreasonable, right-wing, dangerous and backwards city in the entire world."

"Maybe they recognise danger, Chief, better than are more comfortable readers," Clark looked out the window to all of Metropolis. The beautiful sky scrapers loaded with people who were rich and happy and content. It was easy for them to be relaxed around apparently changed criminals like Luther; people from the ruined Gotham would not be so easy going or libertarian. Clark Kent was a liberal man; he was into equality, he believed that men and women, and people of all colours, were of one race. Being not even from this world, Clark understood minorities better than they would ever realise. He knew what it was like to be the freak, the weird one, the one that was misunderstood. It was for that reason hat Clark didn't agree with the death penalty. Everyone deserved the chance to change, to be trusted again.

For Clark, humanity didn't mean your genes or you DNA; humanity was the most beautiful part of the human soul; the part that encouraged people to help one another, even to their own detriment, the part that looked at the beauty of the world, and was so in awe of it and so inspired, that they would go on to create things filled with the wisdom of mankind and the raw beauty and power of nature; humanity was love, and passion and all the things that made life, along with all its ugliness, worth living.

When Clark, or Superman, first met Batman, he was stunned, and quite frankly sickened at the brutal way the shadowy figure dealt with and disposed of villains. Whilst violence was inevitable in stopping crime, the Batman seemed the revel in it. More than once, men had been nearly beaten to death by the vigilante. Even everyday Gothamites seemed more brutal than what was necessary. Unlike Metropolis, Gotham had the death penalty. The death penalty clearly did not reduce crime, but there was an outcry whenever someone in power tried to abolish it. Clark quickly ascertained that the Gothamites did not want Corporal punishment because they thought it worked; they wanted it for revenge.

Superman did not understand their attitude, until he went into Batman's world. Gotham is a dark city, full of misery and helplessness. Criminals were selfish creatures that leached off the people and what little they had in order to satisfy themselves. Mobsters stole what little material goods the people had; local government taxed the rest.

The Rogue Gallery kept people in constant fear, kept telling them that they were inferior in intelligence that they were helpless to the Rogues desires and whims. Someone like Joker wants you dead? It's going to happen. Penguin wants to buy your entire business at a cheap cost that will leave you broke? No matter, it's going to happen. More than once, Clark thought of the Rogue Gallery as cruel and blood thirsty Heathen Gods. The likes of Joker caused millions to suffer, just because it amused him. Thousands would die, if Ivy thought that would help preserve her precious flowers.

It had gotten to the point where the people of Gotham were more than angry, they were incandescent. They hated the criminals more than anyone. Batman was not the only vigilante, there were many in Gotham, all of them violent and with almost impossible demands of morality. Bruce was always unhappy because he never could live up to his own expectations; because they were too high, for any person. So Bruce, like these other groups, attacked criminals with such fervour because they were angry and disillusioned at themselves and the city. When in their shoes, it was easy to get angry and bitter also. Whenever he thought of Gotham, Clark would get a sinking feeling in his chest. It depressed him; and it had the same affect on other people.

The rich and comfortable could afford to be liberal; but people in dangerous times could not. If they were anything less than stern, forceful and extreme, they would probably die.

"I'm going to ask you a question Clark, and I want an honest and straight answer."

Clark was pulled out of his thoughts at the Chiefs request. "Sure, Chief. Ok."

"Are you in Wayne's pocket?"

"What? No. What do you mean?"

"I mean is he paying you!" Perry slammed his fist on his desk, making all the papers fall to the ground; he ignored them. "Are you doing this because he's your pal? Honestly I'm a little disturbed that you're friends with such a man. I always thought highly of you- no, I do think highly of you Clark. You and Lois. But Wayne is a typical fat cat, money man, only he is lazier because he was born into money. Not like us who had to work to get where we are. You've seen what he is like, a money and time waster, a Lothario with the ladies. I don't appreciate one of my best reporters being at the beck and call of a man like that. You're better than that Clark."

"With respect, chief, you don't know Bruce. He's a good guy. It's true that he told me of this situation, but I have chosen to go there."

"Do have any idea how difficult it is to get into Gotham?"

"Huh?"

Perry rooted around in his drawer before pulling out a sheet of formal-looking paper.

"This is a pass to get into the city. I want you back in two days, understood?"

"Yes Chief. And thank you."

The first team entered into Arkham, swiftly they broke into three parts, each going down their designated path. It was completely silent, there was no living thing here, of that they were certain. With unearthly quiet, the heaily booted, heavily armed men flittered through the dark hallways. Through their gas masks they could not speak, even if they could they wouldn't for fear of alerting to Enemy to their presence. The air was cold and the pale, off-white walls were damp and slightly mouldy. As they travelled deeper into the belly of Arkham, they began to step on blood soaked floors. The walls, once damp with perspiration, were now spattered with gore. A red-hue gradually increased, setting an even more ominous tone. The reason why that was, was as soon as C-Block was broken open the alarms went up, flashing red and screeching. Now the sound was off (thank God for small mercies) but most of the lights were still flickering. Others were completely smashed, rendering their area in complete darkness. No natural light from windows was allowed into Arkham, windows only encouraged and abetted escape.

Their collective breathing grew shallow and desperate as they walked through the entrails of unfortunate staff and patients. All these people had been innocent. They were the kind of people that weren't even a threat to the C-block prisoners; killing these people must have been like stamping on the head of a kitten. Any patient who was considered dangerous, a schizophrenic suffering paranoid delusions or a disproportionately drugged manic depressive on a high, would be taken in by the Rogues and used to their advantage. Many Arkham patients, after settling with their pills and realising their crimes, were so racked with guilt they took their own lives.

Everyone in Gotham was a victim of the Rogues.

Steeling themselves, the teams powered on. They knew the root they had to take; it was simple enough. Their only goal was to get any survivors. Well, it was looking like that was going to be easy; there was clearly no one alive. With their feet and guns, they pushed the torn limbs and torsos around, trying to find anyone alive under the carnage. One of the things that often stunned the police forces and SOCO was the way the Rogues managed to completely destroy humans; it was clear to anyone who saw their mess that these...creatures, did not consider themselves the same as their fellow man. Or if they did, they truly hated themselves and their species.

Officer Andrew Kelly was heading up the team who were entering B-Block. He had done this before, three years ago. He had barely escaped with his life and was still in counselling. Kelly was from a macho family who lived just outside of Gotham, in the city's less than idyllic countryside aka wastelands. They were the kind of people that scorned at terms like therapy and counselling. However, when Kelly finally admitted to his father that he was going to counselling for what happened in Arkham, his father simply nodded and gave him a quick pat on the back. Nothing more was ever said. Kelly was grateful. He had been pulled aside by the Commissioner when the orders for a sweep of Arkham were given; he was told that he didn't have to go, that the others and Gordon himself understood and it was ok. However, after three years of not going whenever the freaks got their way, Kelly decided that he wasn't going to let his comrades enter with another man missing. He was more than aware of how low their numbers were.

Breathing heavily through his mask, eyeing the destruction and trying to ignore the hideous stench of death, Kelly decided that if he died today, he would have died a man looking into the abyss. No one could ever call him a coward. He would deserve the stars and stripes being laid across his coffin.

However, by no means was he welcoming death. He had a fine lady and their two children waiting for him back home. He was going to propose to her tonight. They had been putting off for some years, mainly because they could not afford a proper wedding and she didn't want a wedding without class. Well, he had decided to finally let her know that the money and fancy wedding idea could go to hell, he loved her and wanted her as , and that anything involving her equalled class.

Blinking his arid eyes as much as his heavily encrusted eyelids would allow; the thing that was Croc peered into the showers. Licking the air, it's damaged and freakishly elongated tongue forming patterns in the space in front of it, It could taste the atmosphere; the prevalent mood was deep seated fear. This pleased It. They should be afraid. Walking closer, it heaved itself on its back legs (a manner of moving that was increasingly difficult) but he knew that by raising himself to his full height, the fear would increase.

Cocksmore screamed and Hanson fainted.

The Mad Hatter who had been quietly humming to himself allowed a brief frown to mar his placid and emotionally void face temporarily. Walking over to the man, he kicked his head, then he pulled a shower head forward and sprayed with the same cold murky water he had been forced to wash in a few hours ago. Hanson woke up.

It roared in pleasure.

No one in the showers could see Croc properly; his angry rash under hardened scales, sore almost blind eyes and details of his razor sharp teeth were hidden.

What could be seen was a huge, hulking figure, silhouetted against an amber gold- the hallway lighted by the dim light bulbs. The head of Croc was still too small, the long snout hidden from view due to his angle. His arms were long and dragged against the floor like that of a gorilla. He was so tall that the top of his head grazed against the ceiling. However, the thing that once was Croc seemed not to notice.

He was walking similar to how Crane did; that odd, jerking movement of shuffling forward, but, due to having long legs, it almost seemed like it should have been a stride. Like Crane, It didn't seem to move its knees enough either. It almost seemed to totter, as if it could fall any minute. It was almost humorous; only, of course, it actually wasn't, on account of the imminent horrible torture and death that waited. Same as Crane all round really...

"You fool!" Cocksmore screamed at the man he thought was Tetch. "Don't ya see? You're gonna get killed and eat too! Scarecrow is out of here, he left you to die! C'mon Tetch!" Cocksmore looked at the vacant creature. Tetch looked back. It was deeply alarming and it reminded Cocksmore of a story he had once tried to read. In the story, two very stupid and vacant people were described as looking "not as a man looks at a wall; but how a wall looks at a man." And that was the best way he could describe the blond's current expression.

Cocksmore gave up. He groaned loudly, the closest he ever came to a pitiful sob. In that one groan was all the anguish and pain and suffering and regret a single human can feel in a lifetime, locked into one single sound. Cocksmore knew when a Rogue was 'no longer home' so to speak; and that was Tetch and Croc at this time. In fact, Croc had been out of it for months now, it had gotten to the point where all the docs and guards had all been pretty concerned about his condition. Croc had never been humane, but watching him turn into a sort of comotose animal was freakish. He couldn't even speak with the equivelent of a wild animal and a living, emotionless puppet, Cocksmore knew he had no chance of reasoning or bullying or fighting his way out of this situation, if the police were here they'd either leave this place until (and it took hours to check everywhere in Arkham, so he'd be long dead by the time they did arrive) or they themselves were already dead or dying. His best chance was the Bat, but everyone knew he only came out at night; it's why the Rogues tended to escape in the day.

Outside of the showers, Crane snickered, "here come the Chopper to chop off your head," Scarecrow whispered. He had heard the wail of the unfortunate guard and got that Really Great Feeling. Pushing the entire front of his body against the door, Crane continued to listen. He wanted to hear them get eaten, hahahaha... The best part was, regardless of whether the plan failed or succeeded, he was now safe and free to enjoy the torture up ahead.

Scarecrow cocked his head to one side, stroking the door with his left hand.

"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."

Wait...no...Hatter would be dead. Crane blinked, so what if the Hatter died? Did Scarecrow like the Hatter? Why? Crane was confused, Scarecrow was a higher sentient being. Higher sentient beings did not need or want friends.

"All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin."

So why did Scarecrow want Hatter, especially as the Hatter was so weak and incomplete? It was always strange and acutely distressing for Crane when he did not understand Scarecrow. They were different but also one in the same.

""Oranges AND lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's..."

When they disagreed, it physically hurt for a start. It would feel like the brain was ripping in two, pulling in opposite directions. The feeling was like a migraine, his eyesight would begin to go, dizziness and fatigue and sickness would take its place.

And then there was the reaction of his body. With two beings in it, when they worked together it was fine. But when one was angry, or upset, and the other wasn't it bought about general confusion. Right now, Crane's face had gone from grinning to frowning to confused and now his whole body had slumped to the floor. He was shaking.

The worst part of not feeling in tune with Scarecrow was the loneliness. As long as he had Scarecrow, Crane always had someone to talk to, someone to share his fears and aspirations with. Crane was never alone. But when they disagreed, Scarecrows nursery rhyme and riddle speech were no more logical to Crane than they were anyone else; and that hurt.

"Ok, Ok," Crane muttered. "We like Tetch...no...we like Hatter. To like Hatter we need to like Tetch...ok...ok...Oranges and Lemons. Oranges and Lemons..." Crane breathed in deeply as his migraine began to dissipate. He slowly stood back up. "We're ok, we're friends and together. Now we have a new friend..." Crane wondered briefly if Scarecrow wanted a new friend in order to get rid of him but he dismissed it. Scarecrow and Crane would always be together, and maybe, one day, Crane would vanish as his own, autonomous entity and instead become a part of Scarecrow forever, which would be great. There was no possible way that Crane could be replaced.

Suddenly, a spine tingling scream ripped through the air from the Shower area, and Crane burst out laughing.

A/N. Ok, I'm, leaving it here for now because this chapter is so long! I like my chapters to be around 1500 words long. This was over four thousand! (Imagine me screeching the preceeding sentence Vegita style.)

To me, that's way too long.

However, I didn't want to leave you guys with just the Kent conversation (yawn) and I didn't want to leave it out. I thought it'd be interesting to show how (I imagine) other people would view the Rogues, Arkham and Gotham in general. Plus, a lot of different people are doing stuff at the same time right now, so I';m trying to go through them all, whilst keeping the story flowing nicely. Hopefully I managed to do that. Anyway, tune in for the next chapter (hopefully up in less than a month! I'm so bad at updating! I'm sorry!) where we will see what's happening in the showers (lol, with all the yaoi that flows around this site, I bet that sentence has been used so many times before, but meant something so different,) and we'll get to see the three SWAT groups making their way through Arkham, and all the things they find. Also, the psychological aspect will play a little more heavily in the next chapter, especially in regards to Tetch, as I am sure you are all wondering what the hell is going on in that crazy little head of his.

Btw, Officer Kelly is a real character from the series. The only people I made up were Cocksmore and Hanson.

Finally, the ''not as a man looks at a wall; but how a wall looks at a man" qoute is from Titus Groan by Mervyn Peak, a very strange Gothic series about a mad family of royals, the crumbling land they rule and a machivellian psycho who is slowly killing them off. That qoute makes me laugh, and yet describes so well how I am trying to portray Tetch.