(A/N): Happy December! Here we are with our Friday update! This time, we're beginning Day Two of the Games, brought to you by InDeepDarkWood and her excellent Scarecrow.

Thank you, as always, to our writers who have reviewed the most recent chapter as well as the previous ones. We always love to hear from you and to see what excites you and what doesn't. And it is always fun to see the different writers describe the swamp environment; it adds depth to the story, we think.

And, of course, we can't say it enough: If you're enjoying this one and have the time, the first installment of this series, "In the End You Always Kneel," is worth a read. That is, after all, where the Tahiti kids come from!

Thanks also to Slim Summers2002 for all your reviews. We love hearing what you liked about the chapters - and love giggling at your jokes. :)


Chapter Fifty-Three -"As The Crow Flies"

Dawn Day Two

Jonathan Crane of District Eleven

Written by InDeepDarkWood


"Anyone who hasn't experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all." - Jean Genet


It was funny, really, that he'd only been in the arena a day. Already, it felt like a lifetime ago when he had swung through the trees — the dry trees — of Eleven, hitting off nests with his partner-in-crime. Now, it was like a different world, full of relentless humidity that even the nighttime barely escaped from.

It's a good thing I didn't have a cold entering these Games, Jonathan thought to himself, wondering if blood in the lungs would have a similar effect as mucus in the damp air that surrounded him. His feet had sunk down as far as where his laces tied over the past few hours, and he cast an eye over to where his companions and acquaintances slept. It had occurred to him about two hours into his watch that perhaps the person who had decided where they would camp for the night had absolutely no idea of what constituted a good camping ground.

The land around him most certainly curled upwards to varying degrees of altitude, meaning that there probably were a few places that contained a water depth of less than two inches — the approximate length Jonathan guesstimated his laces were from the ground. It didn't matter too much to him, though, since he had pulled the short straw, unluckily, that indicated he was on the darkest night watch.

He smiled to himself, a little knowing smile, as he sat on the tree stump he had decided would be his post. Unlucky for some, I suppose.

Jonathan knew he was diligent in his watching. He had spent a great number of years of his childhood learning how to watch for the signs, listen for the voice, for the sound of off-kilter footsteps approaching. It was the one good thing about the arena, he supposed, and the dampness: despite the many plants and glorious pieces of nature — to paraphrase Pamela — it was difficult for someone to truly hide when each footfall they made began and ended with a delicious squelch.

At home, he had been unable to escape the footsteps of his grandmother, but here...it was a different story.

Jonathan looked over to his little pack again, their features more distinguishable now that the black night had begun to fade. He quite liked the nights here, if they were going to be anything like the one he had just experienced. It was never truly quiet in the arena, and not just because of the still-breathing tributes that lay in the murky waters beside his tree stump. The world was alive, and not all of it was Gamemaker related. Fireflies winked at him occasionally in the night, and the chit-chat of the cicadas provided a narrative once the Marvel light show had faded, and all the birds had gone to sleep.

"I'm a dingle-dangle scarecrow, with a flippy-floppy hat," he sang softly, the night creatures whistling back in accompaniment as he tapped his feet gently in the splashing water. The body of water that spread out to his left was much deeper than where they had stopped. Jonathan thought maybe that was why Jack had decided on the place, to prevent ambushes coming from that side.

Jack Hamill is an idiot, he thought to himself, staring into the unknown depths, the water ripples visible in the long grass on occasion when a lightning bug flashed over it. Perhaps that wasn't entirely true. Their pack leader's laughter hid a brilliant mind and deadly consciousness when it came to planning for people and strategy for chaos and mayhem. But Jack seemed to have little experience of creatures — they were few and far between in fabrics, after all — and more importantly, of the Games.

"And that, my dear Jackie boy, is your downfall and black knight," Jonathan said to himself. Gamemakers didn't rely on tributes to take each other out. He had already quietly pointed out a snake to Pamela while they had been walking, darker in color than the rattlesnakes in Eleven's orchards, and no doubt just as venomous. He thought she would be the only one to appreciate the snake in a way that didn't involve a shriek from Harley, or an over reactive attack by Jack, but small little Jervis had been behind him, nearly forgotten about, and his eyes had gleamed with delight.

If the snakes in the grass and the water were the natural inhabitants of this arena, Jonathan was equal parts excited and apprehensive of what the Gamemakers could create. And Jack just doesn't think that a giant body of water is the perfect hidey-hole for a mutt. Jonathan wondered if Jack had even watched last year's events, and the lake beast that had emerged. The water giveth, and the water taketh away, he thought, letting out a little chuckle aimed at the dark water.

It had been all glittery and artistically appealing when they had portrayed the dead tributes last night; the boy thought it was rather brilliant that they showed it in the sky and the waters. The latter gave a hazy wave to the tributes' pictures.

"How easy it is to become just a little ripple in the water," he mused, and then his body stilled, fixed in position the way a hare would, an ear metaphorically cocked towards the unmistakable squish of a boot attempting to be quiet. His breathing became slow and shallow, mind whirring to pinpoint the weak points of the camp and where an intruder could approach from. The morning was not supposed to begin with an intruder. That wasn't part of his plan, after all. That wouldn't get him noticed, or give him a way to get—

Jonathan halted his inner anger at the footstep-sounding tribute as he figured out its location, and his breathing began again. "How quickly the face can be obscured with one little ripple."

"One ripple might be little, but a little can do a lot when in multiple."

"Good morning, Jervis," Jonathan said without turning to acknowledge the shorter boy. Jervis didn't seem to mind that all too much, and continued his quiet-but-not-quiet walk to sit down on the stump next to the teen. He didn't seem to mind all that much that he had just forced Jonathan into sharing said stump either. "You're up early."

"Yes, I am," Jervis replied softly, his gaze following Jonathan's out onto the water, shifting his weight on the stump, his hand brushing off his fingers. The teen wondered if the other's hands were clammy from the heat, or nervous fear of what was happening around them. He hoped it was the latter.

"You have your first kill under your belt," Jervis continued. Jonathan didn't reply to the statement for a long moment, because he wasn't sure how to reply, since despite his joking and blatant eyerolls towards Sam Wilson, the man had a point about divulging past histories.

"In a way," Crane said carefully.

"Which way?"

"Well it can either be one way or the other, so why don't you just take Harvey's coin over there and take your best shot?" he returned, watching the light creep over the water and move slowly towards their sleeping companions.

"It must have been exciting for you," the other boy said instead, reshuffling their conversation and returning to his earlier words. "I don't think it holds the same appeal for me, but maybe it would after two or three. We'll see."

"Perhaps," Jonathan replied. "Perhaps not."

"I suppose I could always try to alter your mind, to bring you to see things my way," Jervis mused.

"Altering the mind?" he asked, his gaze on the water, because he had planned on getting up from the tree stump by now, but Jervis, his small, hat-wearing companion — a man after his own heart, or vice versa — had reminded Jonathan of their words in the Capitol. And therein lay the idea that Jervis was a useful part of the pack.


Day Three, Jonathan thought to himself, settling down onto the couch in the common room. He thought it was going swimmingly. He was served his breakfast and his supper, and there was always plenty of food over lunch if he wished to eat. He never had to clean his room, it was just done, and nobody in the Capitol looked at him like he had murdered his grandmother, chopped and stuffed her into one of the burlap sacks used to make scarecrows. They looked at him in some kind of awe or at least, looked at the building in some kind of awe, but Jonathan liked to think they had caught his gaze on more than one occasion.

The tributes were an interesting collection. The joker from Eight, the honorable stiffs from Four, the boy with the hat who was walking towards him… all different, all potential kills, or allies, or both. The girl from Six he had seen staring at him discreetly, a small smile on her face that made him wonder what she was thinking about. Not that it matters, he thought. Privately though, it did matter. He liked to know what was going on in people's heads, and what made them tick.

"Like a clock?" Jervis asked, sliding into the seat next to him with perfectly awkward grace.

"Yes, exactly," Jonathan said absentmindedly, then narrowed his eyes and cast a mildly suspicious glance the other tribute's way. "What's like a clock?"

"Ticking," Jervis responded, crossing his legs and tilting his head towards the taller boy. "A little more like a pocket watch, if we're being pedantic about that sort of thing, but a clock will suffice as a substitute word."

Jonathan was silent as he observed the smaller boy, trying not to betray his frustration as to how Jervis knew what he'd been thinking.

"I like clocks," Jervis continued mildly. "I saw you at the poisonous plant section with your partner. Is it just plants they have there?"

"Unfortunately," Jonathan replied, keeping his mind whirring away at Jervis' magical ways. "I suppose knowing edible plants is a lot more important than knowing venomous creatures."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that now," the other tribute said. "A venomous snake can be eaten when you know how."

"That's true, but why tell someone how to eat it correctly, when you can cook it for them incorrectly and watch them die?" Jonathan asked, tilting his head over, sizing Jervis up, mind for mind.

"I never thought about that; I mainly just use them to extract." Jervis scratched his face.

"Extract?"

"Venom. It's a great thing, can turn someone topsy turvy and change their ways. Like the Spider."

"Wolverine, you mean?"

"Oh yes. Him too, I suppose." Jervis fell quiet on the couch. Jonathan twisted his head away, glancing towards the other tributes in the common room to see could they hear a secret conversation. The only two glancing their way were the male tribute from Two and Jonathan couldn't be sure if both eyes or just one was watching and the female from Four, Diana, staring evenly over at them, out of earshot, but somehow just knowing what they were talking about.

"Tell me more about your extraction methods, Jervis."


"I know what you're planning," Jervis said suddenly.

"You do?" He hadn't thought anyone had noticed his plan, even Pamela, despite their mutual knowledge of tracker jackers and how to smoke them into submission. The mutts were common enough in Eleven, remnants of the war his district had mined weapons for, brought to the orchards and gardens to stop thieving citizens and flourishing under the pollen-rich lands between the deserts. It had taken a good number of years for the Sentinels' complaints of death and mayhem in their own ranks for the Capitol to halt the tracker program and replace them with dogs. Their current Sentinel Prime, Martha Washington, was still tearing down nests, and would be for a good number of years more.

Beside the tree stump, in the oozing ground, a peculiar smell was wafting out of Jonathan's backpack, a smell that had been gently floating behind them in the humid air since they had left the Tesseract. Jonathan had made sure to stay near the back during their trek, ever watchful to assess whether his failsafe was needed, or his misgivings of his deal were nothing to worry about for the time being. It's never a good plan to not have an exit strategy, he thought to himself, recalling many occasions when he tested his product in the earlier trials without any heed of what would happen to him if it was less than effective, or the people noticed him.

He hadn't made that mistake when he had gassed M'Baku. He had procured a train for that escape plan, after all.

"Yes, the world is an odd place when you know what people are planning, Crane," the younger tribute stated, crossing his legs and touching the brim of his hat as he straightened his back out. "I didn't think you planned on doing something big so early in the game. I thought we'd have time to plan."

"I thought it was stranger when you didn't know what the plan was. It makes everything more… alive, wouldn't you say?" He paused, glancing over to the other tribute. "I like your hat. Don't you worry that it's going to get caught on something and you'll spend hours and hours trapped by your own token, dangling in a tree just waiting for someone to come along, to free you by letting you fall, or slit your throat?"

"What if the fall kills me instead of the knife; is it part of the plan if it still takes your life?"

Jonathan smiled a little at the words. Jervis had his own coin for a safety blanket; it just wasn't as physical as Harvey's ostentatious token. "I say we figure that out when we come to it," he replied, and Jervis looked up from beneath the brim of his hat, the dawn light creeping in to reflect against his eyes. Jonathan couldn't make out what emotion was behind them, but he knew it wasn't fear.

"We?"

"Yes, we. You and me." He has me doing it now, he thought with a grumble, quietly standing up and reaching for the backpack.

"Little old me. Huh." Jervis remained on the tree stump while Jonathan untied the backpack and removed the smoking incense he had created. "I thought you were going to leave me behind, and after all that work I did teaching you how to deal with tracker jackers."

"You reminded me, you mean," Jonathan corrected, as Jervis stepped off the tree stump.

The lavender was the strongest scent inside, but there were others, sharper, in there too, all creating a merry little smoke bomb in his bag. He threw the stick into the deep waters, watching the smoke tail fade away. It didn't take long for the incense effects to wear off, based on previous experiments, and the homemade job he'd done here made his calculations slightly skewed.

"Head away from the deep water," Jonathan said quietly to Jervis, as the tribute stepped back onto wet land from the stump. "We're running to the hills."

"So to speak," Jervis finished for him, and he sent a wry smile in the other's direction.

Useful, Jonathan thought, his own footsteps quiet in the squelch as he moved into the belly of the beast, passing Harvey on the way.

Harvey never warmed to Jonathan, though the latter could hardly think of a reason why, since pushing him off a roof he knew the other would survive was hardly a relationship-ending action. It was fine, though, since the cool feeling was mutual. Harvey seemed to be all for fairness, even if the jacker venom from the day before had taken a long while to wear off, and he had been a little unhinged, swinging occasionally for his packmates.

Jonathan knew he had nearly tried to kill his district partner while under the influence of the venom, as well as the rush and the high of Slade Wilson. Even telling himself that the world around him was not real had been a challenge. Jervis had seemed positively normal throughout the whole experience, and the teen wondered if that was because of his worldviews.

He cast an eye down to the backpack, where a faint buzz was starting. The Gamemakers had obviously tried to dilute the venom slightly, reducing the length of time the hallucinations lasted. Last year, there had been hours and hours post-sting. Interesting.

This pack was too different for him, too many ideals and morals for his style. Jonathan didn't want to flip a coin to decide someone's fate, or follow a man who seemed to have lost strategy in favor of focussing on particular tributes. Jonathan wanted to kill whomever he wanted, whenever he pleased. He wanted to see fear, and to see people try to overcome it and fail. He had lasted the bloodbath with them, and that was important, since a refusal in the Capitol would have painted a target on his back, and with their aid, he now had a knife. He liked knives.

"Don't you think you should take Angela with you?" Jervis whispered from a little ways away, cupping his hand over his mouth to channel the words.

Jonathan shook his head violently at the question. Angela was fine to talk to, and they had had some interesting conversations when it came to poisons, but she was too close to Jack; he had watched her in the Capitol, trying to worm her way deep into Jack's ear and take the place of Harley.

"Alright, but if she finds us, I'll be laying the blame on you. Are you coming?" Jervis beckoned with his hand.

Jonathan held a finger up to his lips and then waved two fingers in silent communication. He knew there was someone else he had to casually mention his plan to before he left, that someone just wasn't Angela.


What was Sam going to think, when Jonathan told him that he had gotten himself into a little alliance? And not just himself, but his district partner too, all wrapped up in a little bow and neatly protected from the initial first wave of deaths by tributes.

Keep your secrets, you crafty devil. The words echoed in his head, along with Jack's laughter as the elevator reached Eleven's floor, and Jonathan stepped onto the plush carpet, his bare toes curling up into the plush fabric. He had a lot of secrets to keep. Other men, lesser men, would have found his secrets a burden to bear, but Jonathan carried on with his same stride and stance, never faltering, because that would indicate to the other side that he thought there was a possibility of losing in life.

Santana barely looked up from his drawings as the teen walked past him, casting a quick eye over the different ways his stylist was trying to incorporate the hat into his uniform. A stitch onto a hood seemed the most popular choice the tattooed man was making; easy to do while they would be getting ready before launch.

"Sam's still out trying to woo you some sponsors," the stylist murmured.

"I doubt he'll get very far," he responded as he headed towards Pamela's door. Santana gave a barely perceptible nod.

"You got it in one, homie. He still thinks one of you is worth savin', though."

"Probably because he picked us to die," Jonathan said as he knocked on his partner's door sharply. Rat-ta-ta-ta. Rat-ta-ta-ta.

"What?" The teen raised an eyebrow at the question-that-wasn't-a-question and opened the door slowly, half expecting a flying shoe to appear in front of his face. Not that our dear Pammy would have the guts to do that, he thought, his brow arching ever so slightly higher at his thoughts. "Oh. Jonathan. What do you want?" He watched her spine stiffen as she spoke, leaning against the headboard of the bed, cross-legged with a bouquet of flowers on the bed stand beside her.

"I would like to apologize," Jonathan announced and barely hid a snicker of delight as her stiff demeanor vanished and confusion washed over her pale little face.

"What? For… for what?"

For knocking you out all those years ago, he thought in his head. "For what I said to that Racquet girl today," he said instead.

"You mean Rachel," Pamela countered, her voice stronger again.

Jonathan waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, her, yes, whatever. The point is, I've found a way to make it up to you. May I sit? I'll sit." He didn't give her an option as he strode over to the bed and sat on its edge, crossing his legs and tucking his fist under his chin, supported by his elbow as he surveyed her like a psychiatrist would. Or someone looking at a particularly interesting cut of meat. "You and I are going to be in an alliance."

"What? But… But I don't—"

"Well, we can't always get what we want, but just think, you'll have what you need — I'll be there, and the acquaintance you've made in Harley Quinn will also be present." He gave her a smile that crept all the way up to touch his glasses.

"But… why? I mean… Jack, he wouldn't… I don't think he saw anything in me during training," Pamela said, starting to look down and checking herself just in time, so her gaze remained locked with Jonathan's.

"Yes, I doubt he paid you any attention at all, with your naivety and the overly innocent look you have mastered," Jonathan agreed, waving up and down the redhead's attire. For a moment, he thought she was uncomfortable with his roving gaze, but then seemed to realize relaxed, timid Pamela held no appeal when she wasn't frightened.

"But," he continued, "we are both from Eleven, and it only seems fair we look out for each other on the first day at least. Unless one of us gets caved in by a hammer."


The redhead was asleep at the feet of Harley Quinn, the latter looking as though she was reaching out for the boy next to her. Jonathan wasn't sure how Hamill managed to stay sleeping and still curl just the right angle away from his girl to prevent her from getting a touch. Genius in some ways, idiot in others, he thought, bending over his district partner, a hand on the backpack that had begun to buzz even louder.

His free hand reached up to Pamela, and he closed his fingers around her cheeks, blocking off her mouth, leaning over her ear. He had brought her into the pack to keep her safe, to make up for his wild and unnecessary attack on her all those years ago. It had taken him so long to place her face, no longer distorted from his fist, scarred from something else, though. Maybe he was like Harvey. Maybe he wanted to give this girl a little fairness. Maybe he was starting to actually like someone. It was an unsettling feeling.

"Pamela," he hissed, and her eyes flew open, her jaws already working against his grip to unleash a scream, struggling against him. Even when he knew her eyes had recognized him, he saw her freeze for just a moment, saw the scared little Pamela he'd made fun of for crying on the first day in the Capitol.

And then she seemed to speed up again and thrust her head forward. Jonathan pulled back at the last second so he only received a glancing blow. The jarring effect was enough, however, for him to drop the backpack, and it landed with a squelch and a feeble roll towards Jack's feet. The buzz was amplified.

He glanced over to the backpack and then scrunched up his face and turned a murderous eye towards the redhead, watching as she bit down on his finger like a rabid dog.

"Calm down, you idiotic girl, for two damn seconds," he tried to whisper, because Sam had mentioned he should help his district partner, more than just getting her into the pack, but Pamela continued to struggle. Her leg went to kick back and hit Harley in the foot, and the other girl began to stir. "Alright, fine," he growled, snatching his hand away from her and standing up, tempted to aim a kick in her direction.

"Whyuz there an alarm goin' off all the way out here?" Harley asked sleepily, already reaching for her baseball bat.

"Enjoy your trip, Pammy," Jonathan said coldly, as the first tracker jacker rose from the nest in the backpack and hovered in front of him for a moment, then flew, still slightly drunk from the incense, to where Jack lay, and stung his exposed hand. The leader jerked awake at the attack, and Jonathan backed away. "Try not to look so unafraid, my dear, it doesn't suit you." He felt the sharp sting on the nape of his neck from one of the tracker jackers in his nest and slapped it, catching the jacker and throwing it back towards Harvey and the youngest pack member of Harper. Then, he strode past his district partner and toward Jervis Tetch in the swampy bushes.

I tried to warn you, foolish child, he thought, as the rest of the camp started to stir now that the buzzing had increased in decibel. You chose to fight, not listen.

"What were you doing?" Jervis asked him as he rejoined his companion a little ways from the camp.

"Attempting to repay a debt," Jonathan said shortly, with a small smile at the screech Harley let out. "Now, I suggest we be quiet, or we'll miss the show."

It was a glorious show, aided by the fiery red sky that lit up the chaos in dawn lighting. The tracker jacker that had stung Jonathan made it all the better, he figured. Mild hallucinations made the bugs morph in size, with bared teeth and deadly stingers. The mutts were not like ordinary wasps and bees that pollinated the plants and orchards of Eleven. Ordinary ones swarmed to defend the nest. Jackers swarmed when one of their own was in danger; conveniently, the one Jonathan had swatted and aimed at Dent.

"Ah, Mr. Dent, your faces seem to be getting lives of their own," he whispered to himself, watching the Career's features split down the middle as he grew a second head, fumbling in his pocket for his coin. "Such a little trinket." It made him smile as one of the faces had a look of worry, and then the other, disfigured one, took control, removed a knife from his belt, and began to slash at the giant mutts. "Isn't it exciting, Jervis, to see their fear? Can't you just taste it?"

He let out a short laugh as Harvey swung and nearly connected the knife with his district partner. Harper seemed to be the least affected by the stings, most aware of what was going on. Probably as she was such a downer all day, he thought. The younger girl had double-crossed her previous ally and left him for dead, but it seemed she was not as balanced with the action that she led the others to believe. Without any of that adrenaline, the hallucinogen just didn't seem to slow her. How dull.

Jervis clapped his hands together and pointed towards Jack as the lanky teen threw back his head in the early morning light to let rip his trademark laugh, the sound acting like a beacon for the tracker jackers. Even as they settled on him, he twirled around in the mud, acting like a child in the rain. His body dipped and swooped with the unseen hallucinations, and then he reached out with both hands as Angela backed towards him, swatting at both the real and imaginary opponents.

Jack's hands clapped the girl on either side of her head, and seemed to jar her out of the envenomation process. She staggered away, and then turned back, outrage mixed with the embers of fear. Her facial expression only seemed to make Jack laugh some more, and he reached forward, poking her in the forehead with a finger. "Don't be so serious, m'lady. Feel it!" he exclaimed, circling around and around again.

Jonathan presumed he would have continued like that, spiralling further and further away from reality, but Angela took a step forward and shoved him into the deep water at the edge of the camp. Jack came up spluttering, the jackers falling off him in the water. His chalky make-up was still on him, but now it looked like he had run a marathon in it, rivulets of sweat and swamp water streaking down the white.

"They might take each other out," Jervis observed, and Jonathan snapped his hazy gaze towards the two-headed Dent as he swung his knife blindly around and then aimed in the direction of Pamela.

There was a brief, strange, peculiar moment for the teen as a feeling akin to fear for someone else rose up in him, watching Pamela about to get struck down at the hands of an ally. This is how she ends, he thought, his body twitching with the odd emotion within, treating it as a foreign body and making the pit of his stomach sick. With a whimper, as expected.

Then Harley swung her baseball bat, and instead of connecting with Pamela as Jonathan presumed, the pigtailed girl slammed her weapon into Dent.

"You leave Red alone, ya hear me?" Harley exclaimed, pulling back ninety degrees and belting Harvey again, this time in the ribs. Jonathan wished he was closer, so he could hear the crack. "Scram, wise guy!" she called, beating at the delusional teen as he slashed at her with the knife, hitting the bat and no doubt leaving a slice in the wood. "Don'tcha know it! You still look ugly when I'm flyin' high!"

Harvey careened away, towards Jervis and Jonathan, and Jonathan yanked the other's hat off to make him several inches shorter, crouching right down as Harley crashed through the undergrowth, ignoring or unable to spot the two.

Harper did spot them, though, as she followed her district partner, away from Jack Hamill and his girls, and looked torn for a moment, as Jonathan very slowly raised a finger to his lips and smiled at her. She doesn't have it in her, he thought, as she kept a level gaze on him. Not now, at least.

Harper left the pack and followed Harvey. Better the devil you know, little girl.

"That's our cue, Jervis," Jonathan said after a few moments, handing the hat back after a moment of caressing it. He nodded approvingly at the other, who had the foresight to carry a backpack of his own, so they weren't without supplies, and then began to walk in a similar direction as the Twos. He cast an eye back at the four that remained in the camp, watching Pamela already start to rummage through her pack to search for remedies, as Jack crawled out of the water, and the camp fled away from the deep water.

"I just broke a bargain, and the devil's going to be hunting for a soul."


24. Garfield Logan, District Ten Male: Killed by Jack Hamill

23. Francisco Ramon, District Three Male: Killed by Harvey Dent

22. Slade Wilson, District One Male: Killed by Jonathan Crane