Warning: This chapter contains some disturbing scenes.

Jonathan took a turn down toward Shackborough Street, hiking up his bookbag on his shoulder. Never did Jonathan think he would enjoy returning to Shackborough as the clean, respectable world of Gotham City faded away. He would now take no detours or longer routes now that Stan knew he was trying to circumvent him. No use in avoiding the inevitable.

Give me your Fear and I shall take care of him, whispered the dark voice within.

It was the "help" Jonathan had received in the alley, the same voice that when Jonathan surrendered his fear to it the same cool calm filled him – and he then feared nothing. It was wonderful and empowering, but at the same time Jonathan was troubled, because he had never experienced this voice before, this deep-seated voice that seemed to express anger, power and a thirst for others' Fear. At first it frightened Jonathan, but the voice enjoyed feeding upon his Fear and that Fear eventually drained away from him. He slowly was beginning to enjoy its company and the power and control it seemed to offer him. Dare he call it a friend?

How can it be a friend when that "friend" is within your own mind? That's crazy Jonathan. Totally crazy.

(Pick up the drugs. You'll need them today.)

The voice was now giving him directions too. As much as Jonathan hated to admit it, it was rarely wrong. He was studying psychology and realized that perhaps this "voice" was not a healthy thing, but he categorized it to highly imaginative intuition.

The hearing of voices could be early signs of schizophrenia, Jonathan thought. No, that can't be. Now the drugs.

Jonathan realized it was not a wise thing to continue to hide the bag of CliMax in his closet. His mother eventually would find it, he'd know, and carrying it his bookbag would be plain foolish and academic suicide if he brought an illegal substance to school.

Jonathan was now nearing Shackborough Street and at this time of day it was predictably empty – most "business" took place within the confines of Shackborough itself, not on its outskirts. The filthy gray brick walls were covered with graffiti. He made sure the hiding place he picked for the drug was easily recognizable, but not too obvious. Over a large pile of dented and rusted trash cans were the large red graffiti words:

HELL U R

This was the place all right. From behind the trash cans Jonathan retrieved the clear, crumpled bag of CliMax, its white crystalline power sliding around innocently enough in the plastic.

Jonathan, what do you need this for? Throw the damn drugs away!

(Because you'll need them!) the voice insisted darkly.

Jonathan looked at the bag, wanting more than anything to pitch it in the trash.

(Put it in your pant's pocket. Trust me – and your needs, your dreams will be fulfilled in time.)

Jonathan closed his eyes and slid the hated bag of drugs into his pant's pocket. He sighed and continued to wind his way down the street, nearing Shackborough. Although the day was sunny and warm, Shackborough Street was enclosed by two very large buildings, which always made it shady, cool and subsequently dark. It also remained a favorite spot for Falcone and his thugs, drug dealers and prostitutes. Jonathan was left pretty much alone; he was too poor and looked too weak for anyone to take notice of – except one.

"Hey, Scarecrow!"

Jonathan slowly turned around, a sudden weariness filling his heart. He was in no mood for Stan. He was so sick and angry of Stan and his incessant bullying. Surprisingly Stan didn't have his full entourage, just two of his cronies. Jonathan guessed beating him up that afternoon didn't take top priority when the weather was this nice.

"Scarecrow, you sent me on quite a chase the other day, but that means twice the play time today."

Stan stepped forward, his fists clenched, his muscles bulging in his black shirt. His cronies remained behind. Jonathan closed his eyes, all his Fear draining from him.

"Hey, Scarecrow," Stan laughed, pulling his fist back for the punch.

"Yes," Scarecrow replied.

Scarecrow suddenly opened his cool, blue eyes and swiftly stepped out of Stan's way just as his fist lunged out like a deadly cobra and struck – deep – with crunching fury into a brick wall.

Stan shrieked piteously in pain, clutching his injured and bloody hand. His cronies gazed wide-eyed and terrified. Scarecrow could sense their Fear and relished it. But Scarecrow had far more delightful and delicious prey before him; oh, the Scarecrow was so going to enjoy this.

Scarecrow stood before Stan, a slight, cold smile playing upon his lips.

"Yes, I am Scarecrow. You call this play time? I have a far better game we could play."

Stan, clenching his wounded fist, gazed in confusion and anger at the boy that once was Jonathan – but he was different, so different all of a sudden. He stood tall and his eyes were cold, near emotionless, with that cruel smirk on his face. So Jonathan was toying with him? He would show that him!

"I'm going to rip you apart for doing this," screamed Stan.

Suddenly Stan lunged at Scarecrow again, this time with his good fist, determined not to hurt, but to break a jaw, crush a bone or shatter a nose. But Scarecrow was quick – quicker than Jonathan ever could be – for in Stan's anger Scarecrow knew his fury was borne of Fear, Fear of losing control, Fear of looking foolish in front of his friends, and Scarecrow grew strong with each passing moment of Fear.

In one swift stroke, Scarecrow deftly slipped from his pant's pocket the bag of CliMax and as Stan rushed at him, the menacing fist ready to aim the devastating blow, Scarecrow forcefully threw its crystalline contents full into Stan's face.

Stan's bloodcurdling shriek hardly stopped business in Shackborough Street – not when they were used to gunshots in the far off distance or fierce beatings as a matter of business. Drug dealers, prostitutes and a few of Falcone's men casually looked with some interest at the screaming teenager clutching his face before resuming business once more. Stan's cronies had fled as soon as they saw the powder fly, fearing Scarecrow had more.

Now Stan that was on his knees, his face covered with his hands, shaking uncontrollably, he was entirely at Scarecrow's mercy – and Scarecrow became drunk with his feeble helplessness.

"Please, no! Please, stop! Help! Oh, God," Stan wailed through his hands.

Scarecrow slowly kneeled down beside Stan, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Gently, almost tenderly, he touched Stan's arm, knowing what it would do to him.

"No! No! Please!"

Scarecrow's touch felt like claws ripping deep into his flesh, clawing at him. Stan didn't dare open his eyes, fearing the terrors he would see. Already his heart was racing, his blood pumping with adrenaline, his mind flooding with pure nightmare.

"Do you know what it is I gave you," whispered Scarecrow.

Stan wailed. Scarecrow's voice sounded like the growling of a demon from the darkest pits of Hell.

"What I gave you is Fear," said Scarecrow. "Pure – delicious – Fear."

With each word Scarecrow grabbed hold of Stan's wrists, desperately clutching his eyes, desperately trying to block out the nightmares trying to flood his sight.

"I want your Fear," whispered Scarecrow, grimacing. "I need your Fear. Tell me your Fear – your darkest Fear."

"No," wailed Stan, shivering uncontrollably. "Please, no."

"Tell me," Scarecrow screamed viciously.

Violently he tore Stan's hands from his eyes and stared at Stan's face covered in the deadly CliMax powder. Stan's face was twitching, his eyes wide, glazed with terror.

"Oh, God! Oh, God," Stan shrieked.

He writhed uncontrollably, struggling to get away from Scarecrow, crawling on his hands and knees across the filthy pavement. This was too good, too fun for Scarecrow to resist.

"No! No!"

Stan's vision clearly was distorted, for he crawled instead of to any safety, to a garbage heap in a dead end and curled up there, shaking. As Scarecrow slowly approached, savoring the sight of his victim just waiting there for him, Stan dared to gaze at him, his chest heaving, like a prey knowing it's about to die and wanting to see its murderer before falling into darkness forever.

Scarecrow hovered over Stan, slyly grinning, his eyes cold and keen upon his prone, helpless victim, drinking in all the Fear this delicious victim was pouring into him. How sweet it was, how very sweet. Fiercely, Scarecrow grabbed Stan's jaw, clenching it hard. He could hear Stan whimper, feel him trembling beneath his touch. Stan closed his eyes tight.

"I will not kill you," said Scarecrow. "If you tell me what you Fear."

Stan's eyes opened. His vision was glazed from the drugs and the trauma of whatever terror he was now witnessing.

Scarecrow bent close to his victim, his eyes cold.

"What do you see? What am I?

Stan's eyes widened, seeing his terror hovering so close to him, so close. A droplet of bright red blood began to ooze from his left nostril.

"I – you're –"

"What am I!"

"You're a monster," Stan screamed.

Scarecrow coolly smiled, his blue eyes like twin February ice.

"Good answer – for that the monster won't kill you."

Stan gasped in relief, his glazed, fearful eyes almost registering joy.

"But I shall leave you with a parting gift."

The plastic bag which held the CliMax was clenched hard in Scarecrow's hand. He held it up to the light. A few white crystalline particles still clung to the bottom of the sack.

"There's just a little left," whispered Scarecrow. He turned his cold, blue eyes to Stan, a cruel smile upon lips. "I wonder what the rest of it will do to you."

Scarecrow poured the rest of it up Stan's nose while he screamed.