The conversation later continued in the basement. Crane sat at the edge of one of the central tables as Dahlia had free reign to investigate. It was mutually understood that if any kind of partnership were to move forward successfully, they needed to reestablish trust, starting with hers. And in a situation where most would probably have run by this point, she was willing to give it this chance. Truly, she didn't want to lose their unique bond.

Dahlia asked as her fingers traced the handle of a floor vat, "Why did you grab me?"

"You surprised me. When I returned to share this secret, you were gone. I was concerned you got the wrong impression, and you reacted before we could discuss."

Hm, she couldn't blame him she supposed. Glancing his way, Dahlia commented, "Sorry about your ribs."

"No apology needed. You're a little stronger than I'd have guessed. It's a good quality to be unexpected."

She smiled. "I used to work out a lot more than I do now. Dad also signed me up for self defense classes a long time ago. But, well ... we saw how useful that turned out to be."

Crane reassured, "We'll make sure you're better prepared next time."

"Eager to grapple with me again, huh?" Dahlia impulsively joked.

The sly comment appeared to take Crane off guard, as he slowly looked towards her with raised brows. He didn't appear readied with a reply. She moved on, and wandered towards another table with stacks of notepads. "So ... what's the idea here? What is next time?"

Now here, she thought, is where we get down to brass tacks. Everything here seemed so deliberate, surely there was an idea in mind. Crane slid off the table and into a standing position. He motioned Dahlia to walk with him. "Do you follow current events?"

With a tinge of guilt, she replied, "Somewhat, but not lately. I've had bigger problems."

"Fair enough." They ascended the stairs. "What occurs in any society is a trickle effect. Everything filters down from the top. To break the cycle, we need to prioritize the condition over the symptoms. Care to guess a diagnosis?"

Passing back into the spare room and back into the living room, she asked without any conviction, "Politicians?"

"More or less." He lead her to the front. "The mob have their hands more firmly rooted in public affairs than anyone realizes. If you want to ask yourself why things seem for the worse, look no further than the greed of men with money."

Seemed like the long night was finally coming to a close. Near the front door, Crane stopped to face Dahlia. He had gained a subtle sort of regard in his voice - she didn't really fathom that the dignified Jonathan Crane could express this kind of passion. "It will take some time. It won't be enough to just ... scare the wolves. I need to find the den and set fire to it. And fight with something more sophisticated than just firearms. Fight fear with fear."

Regardless of the intimidation Dahlia felt hearing this all, she didn't feel apprehension. Even though it was inspired on a personal level, it sounded like an ambitious idea that could benefit people like she and Crane, and the entire population of Gotham. She wasn't sure how yet, but the beats seemed sound.

"I think you and I would be able to benefit each other with this project. And I certainly couldn't trust anyone else to help me bring true justice to Gotham."

... Last chance for satisfaction, Dahlia. Are you ready to greet the first day of the rest of your life?"

She had all the information she wanted.

"Yes."

He smiled. "Good." When he reached out towards the front door, Dahlia fully expected him to open it so she could head out. But instead, he was securing several custom door locks. She only noticed now that the door knob fixture looked different than standard - he secured that last.

"I have a little surprise for you, that I think you'll enjoy."

With a bob of the head, he encouraged Dahlia to follow him again. She hoped there wouldn't be some cruel plot twist. But still she followed, back to his far office. There, Crane took a key from his pocket and unlocked the large cabinet. When he pulled each door open, fabric from within expanded. At first it just looked like an assortment of knotted cloth, but a moment later she realized she was looking at ... masks? Maybe ten or so masks, hanging on small hooks lining the cabinet walls. All earth-toned and made of flexible materials.

"Prototypes." Crane said. "Respirators with custom filters. They also serve as an emblem for something visceral for the imagination." She peaked an eyebrow at that last comment, not quite following. He clarified with emphasis, "You're the first thing someone sees after inhaling my compound. It should inspire terror."

That explained some of the stories she'd heard. He added, "Take one."

"... Am I gonna need it?"

"In several moments, yes."

A square room of steel. All metal walls, floors, and a single steel chair in the center. On one wall was an observation mirror and high-security door. On the ceiling was a hanging light fixture.

Only one other thing occupied this room. A young woman, tied to the chair. Dark makeup appeared streaked with moisture drying on her skin. At the moment, she was calm and still. Tired from fighting.

A thud from the latch across the door got her interest, and her head lifted up. But when a figure stepped through, her curiosity turned to dread. What stepped through was a thin figure in all black wearing a stitched white linen and burlap mask. The material appeared loose over the figure's head but was closer-fitting at the tailored neck. Over the beady eye holes were black sockets smearing downwards. The mouth was exaggerated with the corners pulled low, decorated with additional stitching that loosely resembled teeth.

The girl began crying at the sight of it. "I-I just want to go home. I didn't want any of this, please ..." The white mask waited. Something was clutched between its palms over the chest.

Caitlin pleaded again, wagering a guess. "Dahlia, is that you? The Scarecrow wasn't you, b-but is this you? Please, please help me. You can't let me die here, you can't."

Dahlia's heart was pounding hard. She didn't move, and didn't know what to say.

"Please, Dahlia, I know it's you." She sniffled and seemed able to compose herself again. "It has to be you. I knew you have some part in this. Please, you can still help me and stop all this."

Those words burned in Dahlia. Her voice was tensed, and low. "Have you ever said the word 'please' prior to this moment?"

Caitlin reflected a mixture of emotions, her voice shaky. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The sound of Dahlia's voice was indistinguishably more confident now. It was as if something else was speaking for her, and she was happy to go for the ride. "It makes sense, now that you actually need something from someone else. What's the matter, Caitlin, not pretty enough to charm me out of those ropes? It's done you so well, up until now that is."

Caitlin lost control of her own figurative mask, and clapped back with heat, "It was all Natalie, everything's always her idea!"

"Tell that to everyone you've fucked over!" Dahlia shouted. Her hands gave a sharp twist accompanied by a hiss, and the air around them suddenly turned white. Caitlin began to cough hard, eyes watering. Dahlia wasted no time - She exploded forward and placed a hand on each of the chair's arms, fingers rapping, looming over her hostage with hungry anticipation.

When Caitlin looked up, her coughing transformed into manic screaming.