"Snip…snip…snip…" Jonathan chanted to himself softly as he held a pair of scissors to his hair and trimmed the pieces in his fingertips. "I don't know why I never became a barber…it's not that tough."

As the last ribbon of hair fell to the floor, Jonathan scampered over to a pool of water left over from a recent storm. The barn let small droplets of water drip every so often into his home, which wasn't hard to imagine since the roof was full of holes anyways. His eyes peered hard at the muddy mirror and a smile of satisfaction grew on his face. Not half bad…it resembled his hair before being locked up in an asylum, and then living in near poverty for months. He turned on his heels and wandered to a small shopping bag hanging on the barn door. There was little food left…he would have to go out soon if he wanted to eat, which meant he needed a purpose to go outside…

Jonathan picked up a newspaper he had snatched from Gotham after a little midnight excursion last night to rob a convenient store for whatever little food he could find.

News of the murder of his mother seemed to die down quickly in Gotham, Jonathan concluded, as he held up a recent newspaper with little or no news on the tragedy. "She doesn't deserve the coverage anyways…" Jonathan muttered through his teeth, tossing the paper behind him. He was, of course, the prime suspect. Unfortunately, he left no leads…he was smart. Too smart for this particular police force. Though he wondered whether the batman was on the case…perhaps he would show more ingenuity then the idiotic Gotham City Police Department and find Jonathan.

Jonathan slumped into his dilapidated chair and rubbed his chin in thought. Although still thin and pale, his body seemed to be getting stronger…of course, he couldn't fight. He had never learned that skill anyways. But he wouldn't have to if he could perfect his weaponized hallucinogens. He frowned in thought. He needed supplies desperately. If he could just get his hands on some chemicals…perhaps he needed to roam the street in search of some cheap drugs. Of course he needed something more than drugs to complete the fear toxin. He needed chemicals. He needed the thrill of returning to his one true passion. He needed to work, or he felt his mind would simply be left to the charge of his insane alter-ego. No, he knew where to go…he knew exactly what he had to do…

Yes Jonathan…go on. We need food, money, and supplies. You know your next target…now go…

-------------------

Jonathan was fresh out of college with high grades, a glowing resume, and a job offer at his very own college as professor of psychology.

It was his dream, his only purpose. A chance to indulge not only himself, but others, with the workings of the human mind.

It was his first day…the first day of a new chapter in his life. Professor Jonathan Crane. He liked the ring it had. As he adjusted his briefcase in one hand, and his glasses with the other, he marched up the college steps, ignoring the looks of confusion and curiosity given to him by the students around him. They couldn't be more than five or six years younger than him. Some of them seemed intrigued by the gangly-looking man in an old, worn suit. Others snickered as he passed and quickly whispered in their friend's ear about the weirdo walking by.

Jonathan was still not used to being teased, especially since this was college, and he had hoped the little whelps had grown out of this habit, but he knew this would change once he got in his classroom, into his domain where he made the rules.

Jonathan steered his way through the maze of onlookers and found his classroom quickly. "Room 313, Psychology," Jonathan reached out to grab the doorknob when he felt a large hand clamp onto his shoulder.

"Excuse me, but that class doesn't start for twenty more minutes…what are you doing?"

Jonathan craned his neck and looked up at a man, older than he, frowning in disapproval.

"I'm sorry, sir. It seems you have me mistaken for a student…" Jonathan turned and held out his hand. "Professor Jonathan Crane, I…I'm teaching this class."

The man behind him looked wary. "You?"

"Yes sir. A-and you are?" Jonathan retracted his hand when the other man did not accept it, and quickly shoved it in his pocket.

"Professor Frederick Hawthorne. I teach physiology, down the hall." He jerked his head to the side and frowned more. "I'm sorry…but aren't you a bit too…young to be teaching this class?"

"I may be young, but that doesn't mean I do not understand the subject, Mr. Hawthorne. I'm quite capable of teaching."

Frederick's eyes began to scan the young man up and down, taking in his pale, thin appearance, his old suit, and especially those cold, blue eyes.

"Of course. I shouldn't undermine intelligence by…appearance," Hawthorne said, wrinkling his nose with a little disdain for his new co-worker. Jonathan felt a cold chill run down his spine as the man turned on his heels. "Welcome to the staff of Gotham University, Professor Crane."

Jonathan glared at the man's head as it disappeared into a room down the hall. He already had a disliking of him. Of course, it would do little good to hold petty grudges, so Jonathan ignored his new "friend's" comments and entered his classroom quietly.

---------

"Fear. The very thing we need to keep us alive. Webster's defines it as "an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger". For, as long as man has been alive, there has been something he was afraid of. Of course, he used things like fire and weapons to drive away the demons and shadows lurking around them. We continue to share a common bond with our primitive ancestors."

"The hair on your arms and neck stand on end when fear overtakes you. A simple reaction of the body…attempting to deal with the adrenaline and chills you get…or perhaps a mechanism to intimidate the thing frightening you, much like a cat or dog may do when it gets angry."

Jonathan paced before the rows and rows of students, all fixated on him. Though he wasn't sure whether they were focused on his speech, or on his obviously "bizarre" looks.

"There are many ways the body responds to fear. Your pulse quickens, adrenal glands pump the chemical adrenaline through your body, every nerve stands ready to receive an order, and your muscles prepare for something I assume most of you have heard of…fight or flight."

Jonathan's eyes scanned the faces of his class and smirked.

"We will be studying the mind's response to fear, as well as the phobias that cause it. From common things like nyctophobia, arachnophobia, acrophobia and glossophobia to the more irrational fears…like agoraphobia, hydrophobia, and mysophobia…"

Jonathan paused and peered at one young man far in the back corner. He had his hand raised and a cocky look on his face.

"Yes?" Jonathan pointed to him and folded his arms. "What is it?"

"Professor Crane, I think if we're going to get anywhere in this class, we should know what you are afraid of."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Well, how can we take a teacher seriously if he teaches fear, yet doesn't disclose his own fears, if he has any."

The young man's friends stifled their laughter and continued to watch Crane.

Jonathan peered harder at the student and cleared his throat, glancing down. "I myself am a bit claustrophobic…as well as automatonophobic…" He raised an eyebrow. "Is that sufficient for you?" What he said was, in part, mostly true. Jonathan was very put off by small closed quarters. It came from years of being shoved into lockers, sometimes until a teacher or the janitor walked by right as school was let out, or a few hours after it was over. As for being automatonophobic…he despised, not feared, the garden scarecrow put up to keep birds from the crops. He had been strung up on one of those poles during his childhood, only to bake in the sun for hours until the boys who did that to him cut him down and left him in the field.

Jonathan felt his pulse quicken and cleared his throat. "I said, is that sufficient enough information, sir, or would you like to disclose some things that make you afraid?"

The student's smile faded and a frown crossed his face. "No professor. That's all I wanted to know."

"Good. Then let's get on to our lesson."

---------

Jonathan sighed in exasperation as he pounded his hand against the rust bucket he called a car. He had forgotten his keys inside his classroom. He was so wrapped up in his class that everything else just seemed to slip his mind.

Jonathan dropped his briefcase by his tire and walked placidly up the steps towards his class. It was late afternoon, most students gone to their dorms or to lunch, while others milled in for their classes. Jonathan reached his door soon and was ready to open it when he heard laughter. Loud guffawing laughter. Jonathan frowned, looking around and spotting the door to Hawthorne's class open. That's where it came from.

He looked to his door, then back at the open one, and quietly stole off down the hall, standing idly by the door.

"Did you see how he came to work? Absolutely horrendous!"

"He's too young to even bother coming here. He should use those lanky arms and legs for something more useful…"

"Like standing out in a field and scaring birds away," one voice cawed loudly and began to laugh.

Jonathan's cheeks grew hot and red as they spoke. He knew exactly who they were talking about.

"Hawthorne, now, that's no way to treat him…he's a new professor…we were all in his shoes once."

"That scarecrow will never amount to a teacher. No one would take him seriously. I don't even take him seriously!"

That was enough. Jonathan had heard enough. He whipped around gritting his teeth with such hatred he was surprised they didn't crack under the pressure, and stormed back into his classroom to retrieve his keys.

Soon he was on his way home, his eyes narrowed on the street and his hands gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white.

No one took him seriously. He was too young, too tall, too skinny, too frail…nothing was right with him it seemed.

Well, if they wanted a teacher to take seriously, then so be it. He would be taken seriously, even if it killed him.

-------------------

Frederick Hawthorn whistled a tune to himself as he exited his classroom at around nine at night. He needed to hurry back home as quickly as possible. It was his wife's birthday, and he had bought her a gift, but had no time to wrap it. Glancing at his pocket, he spotted the small black jewelry box and smiled. He hoped she would like it.

Hawthorn was no more than a few feet from his car when heard the most awful, animalistic screech ring through the night air. Snapping his neck to the left, he watched as a loud clatter and clopping of hooves started towards him. Soon, the figure of a practically emaciated black stallion came into view of the dim streetlamp, upon it a rider donned in dingy brown jacket over his equally mud-coated straightjacket. Before Hawthorn could react, the figure easily leapt off the horse's back and landed like a cat, slowly picking himself up and cocking his head at the professor.

"Well, well, well…if it isn't my old friend…Frederick Hawthorn."

Hawthorn was stunned and completely taken aback. Who was this person? How did they know his name?

"Don't look so surprised, Professor!" The mystery figure placed a hand on his chest and tilted his head to the other side. "Don't you know me?"

"I…I don't th-think so…a-are you o-one of my st-students?"

The figure laughed and made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Nope!" He wrenched off his mask and there stood the pale, thin man that was Jonathan Crane, his hair mussed and tangled in large clumps. "Surprise!" He grinned, throwing out his hands. "What? No hug?"

Hawthorn's mouth opened and closed as he struggled to speak. "Y-you? You're the man…you…I know you."

"Well I imagine so. Professor, or should I say Doctor, Jonathan Crane at your service…" Jonathan took a few steps forward, a smile on his face, and stretched out his hand. "You remember…I used to teach here."

"Yeah." Hawthorn seemed to be put at ease, despite the young man's strange appearance. "And…you got canned that very same year…"

"All water under the bridge, my friend…" Jonathan chuckled, waving his hands. "How have you been? Still working hard I see…" Jonathan glanced at the expensive car nearby and then back at Hawthorn. "It must be a good life."

"Y-yeah. Say, listen, Crane…I would love to chat, but I have some really important things to do…you think, maybe, we could talk some other time?" Hawthorn said, gingerly grasping Jonathan's hand and forcing a smile. It was like he was holding a dead fish instead of a human hand…cold, clammy, and bony.

"Oh?" without warning, Jonathan yanked hard on the man's arm and pulled him close. Hawthorn opened his mouth to protest, scowling. But that instant, the professor's eyes went wide as dinner plates, and his mouth hung open in horror. Jonathan's grin never faltered. "Gee, you know…I would really love to take you up on that offer, Hawthorn. Unfortunately, I don't think you are the kind of guy to keep promises. Just a thought…"

Jonathan released his grip and watched as the man collapsed to the ground on his back, a sharp wooden stake puncturing his body. He stared at Jonathan in terror and made soft sounds to find someone to help, but his body soon gave out and he was frozen in that spot, dead.

Jonathan sighed and shook his head. "I don't get it. They always do that. I'm sorry Mr. Hawthorn, but if you don't mind, I need some new clothes. And I don't believe you need yours. Though, you can keep the shirt. There's a little stain on it…"

Jonathan turned the man over in order to wrench off his coat. He occasionally looked around, making sure no one had seen him. But it wouldn't matter. The smart people don't like to stick their noses where it doesn't belong.

As soon as Jonathan pulled on the man's coat, he simply pulled off the pants and shoes to match. Big enough to hide his other clothing underneath, Jonathan looked rather presentable. It reminded him of the days where he had worn designer suits and Italian leather shoes. Now he wore a straightjacket and horrid orange jumper.

Jonathan shook his head and began rummaging through the pockets. He touched something cold and metallic and smirked. He found what he was looking for. Keys. "Perfect."

Once inside the campus, Jonathan blended in perfectly. There were few people around to begin with, so it was easy to sneak into the Laboratory and into the supply closet to get what he needed. Jonathan had brought along a briefcase (courtesy of Mr. Hawthorn) and began to stuff as many needed supplies as he could, keeping a close eye and a sensitive ear to any noises outside the door. Once, he froze, hearing the squeaky wheel of the janitor's bucket as he rolled by, but soon resumed grabbing handfuls of chemicals, not caring about safety. When he ran out of briefcase space, he proceeded to stuff the bottles and canisters of liquids into his pockets and anywhere else he could fit them.

Jonathan dumped the keys in the trash and raced out of the building, sprinting down the street. He was amazed he hadn't been caught yet. It was hard to miss a gangly pale maniac with a suitcase full of chemicals running down the football field. Of course, the people of Gotham weren't known for their brightness, either. Jonathan spotted his transportation grazing on the grassy field near the parking lot. "Get over here you flea-bitten nag!" He hissed, careful not to trip over his feet as he ran towards the horse.

The horse perked up at his owner's insults and trotted over to him like a faithful creature, as if the hatred Jonathan had for it were the kindest and sweetest form of affection it had ever known.

Jonathan swung onto the horse's back and smiled, placing a spidery white hand on the horse's dusty, matted mane. "Our work here is done." Jonathan reached into the coat pocket to make sure he had gotten the right chemicals, but spotted a small black box instead. Jonathan furrowed his brow and curiously opened it.

The glittering diamond necklace sparkled in the starlight, as did the young man's eyes. Inside, a small card on the lining of the box made Jonathan nearly gag.

To my dearest wife Karen. I don't think I could ever live without you…Happy Birthday.

The last line, however, made Jonathan laugh. "I don't think you could ever live without her either, Hawthorn. Good thing you're dead." He snatched the small card from inside the case before snapping it closed and shoved the box into his pocket again. "I don't think Mr. Hawthorne's wife will mourn the loss of her necklace more than the loss of dear Frederick. I think I'll keep this. You never know when the need for money shall arise…" He looked at the card, then at the body a few yards away, still illuminated by the light of the streetlamp. A queer smile curled on Jonathan's lips and he dismounted the horse. "Hmm…"

He hurried over and dropped the card on the man's forehead, then scattered some straw around the body. "This should be fun for the police to solve…"

Soon Jonathan was on the horse's back once more. He kicked the beast's sides, causing him to rear up and gallop down the dark streets of Gotham, spittle and foam flying from his lips.

A/N: So far my story has gotten a good amount of hits, seeing as it's been up for less than a week.

Thanks for taking the time to read my fic, guys. I have a fairly good idea of where the story is heading, but if you have any suggestions for future chapters, I wouldn't mind the help.

Much Love! ...Amazon...