Jonathan stood at the iron gates of Arkham. The young man looked at the imposing bars before him, placing a spidery white hand on the frozen steel, rusted in blotchy spots along the metal framework. He shivered a bit, the chill of metal sending a sharp sting through his palm. It was raining, but Jonathan was too awestruck to notice his hair and clothing getting damper by the second.

Soon, however, he worked up the courage to start down the beaten stone walkway towards the main entrance of the building. He sucked in his breath as he reached the front door and pushed it open, coming face to face with the eerie darkness of a hallway decorated with an old, Victorian style-charm. The charm, however, dissipated when Jonathan heard an ear-splitting scream rip through the halls, reverberating off the walls and disappearing into the shadowy darkness. His grip tightened on his briefcase and he swallowed back a lump in his throat.

"Welcome to Hell, Jonathan Crane…"

Jonathan woke with a start, catching his breath and a ragged gasp and gripping the earth under his fingers. His eyes were wide, searching every dark crevice of the barn as he shuddered beneath his makeshift blanket…the straightjacket used to keep him 'safe' in Arkham. Jonathan reached up, running his hand through his greasy dark hair, and allowed his body to adjust to the shock until his heartbeat slowed.

Jonathan refused to believe he had nightmares. He, the master of fear, couldn't suffer from such childish delusions. But here he sat, in the darkness, blinking and holding back the shudders that threatened to shake his body.

All the memories of his past flooded into his mind as he placed a hand over his face. He remembered the afternoon he met Falcone. He recalled entering Arkham and receiving the first voice of confirmation to his new job. It wasn't like his nightmare. No. He had started up the staircase and entered the 'receptionist's' office. The man behind the desk stared at Jonathan, his eyes taking in the young man's pale, marble-like features and icy blue eyes rimmed with dark, full lashes. The receptionist smirked toothily and pressed a button, allowing the metal gate leading to the cells to open.

"Welcome to Arkham, Doctor Crane."

Jonathan smirked to himself and let his head hang between his knees, swaying from side to side. He was being ridiculous. Arkham was a place of pure delight for Jonathan. He grew to enjoy his life within the confines of his newest job. People knew who he worked for. Word spread fast. Thus, many of the nurses and attendees left him alone.

But as these memories flooded his mind, Jonathan always began to wonder…why it ever stopped. Why his wonderful life, his amazing new job (that he enjoyed more than anything else) had possibly turned him into a corrupt psychopath with the inkling to kill those who hurt him.

In the beginning, plans went smoothly. The first shipment of drugs came in fine. No interferences. Jonathan was given a sample of the blue flower Ducard had shown him and soon came up with a chemical compound that mimicked the effects. Even Ducard seemed quite impressed at his findings. Jonathan asked what the chemicals were for. Ducard said they were for Gotham.

Jonathan smiled. These men knew how to do business…these "League of Shadows" people that he was becoming acquainted to. Jonathan assumed that, with the threat of some kind of chemical warfare on their hands, Gotham City bureaucrats would fork over any amount of money to keep their city relatively safer.

Soon, as Jonathan became a familiar face in the asylum, he would sneak off into the basement, the lowest level in the building, and tinker with his chemicals. No one bothered him; no one could stop him even if they tried. He began to toy with the idea of testing it on a certain inmate that was giving the nurses some trouble. He offered to talk with the man, convincing the attendants that he would be fine, alone, and that's where he made his first, most grave mistake.

Locked in a room with a mentally unstable person was unsafe enough. But Jonathan, eager to test his newest batch of toxin, failed to remember that he would be breathing the same air his victim was, air that was now contaminated with a dangerous vapor of fear.

Horrible things happened. The man he was testing on began screaming and flailing, despite the fact he was strapped onto his bed. Jonathan watched in horror as the room seemed to shift and move under his feet. Shadows grew more defined, morphing into the nightmarish images of childhood tormentors. Jonathan pounded on the cell door, roaring and screeching to be let out immediately as the shadows came down upon him. The nurses only assumed he was frightened by the wild man in the cell. But as Jonathan tumbled from the room and scrambled to sit against a wall, they could see a different terror in his eyes.

People knew, that day, that something had changed in the young man. He rarely left his office, and if he did, he wouldn't bother a passing glance to others in the building. He would sometimes be caught talking to himself, though people thought perhaps he was just reviewing work out loud. Little did they know that the small dose of chemicals he inhaled had made him temporarily insane. It was such a small dose that the effects were minimal, but he hid it well. Even though his mind was slowly unwinding, that he could hear voices, and that shadows would occasionally dance around him in a horrific fashion…Jonathan could hide it well.

As weeks went by, Jonathan kept his promise with Falcone. He gave a false mental evaluation on the man being convicted and delivered his thug into the safety of Arkham. Perhaps 'safety' was not the best choice of words. Jonathan's unstable mind began to twist, and ideas formed in his head. What he had seen in the cell was just the beginning. He began working on something that would protect him from the experiments he would do. He needed something to represent himself. He chose the mask of a scarecrow…the perfect combination of poverty and fear. As well as the nickname the snot-faced children and his two-faced coworkers at work gave him.

Soon, his project was completed, and he would begin to wear this symbol with a sort of twisted pride. Soon, he began testing his chemicals on more of the inmates at the asylum…including Falcone's thug.

Soon, a pretty assistant DA began to stick her nose where it didn't belong.

Weeks, months, perhaps even a few years after he worked as Arkham's leading psychologist, he was called to testify at a hearing. A hearing of one of Gotham's most notorious serial killers at that time. Actually, he was more of an assassin. Zsasz, Victor Zsasz, also worked for Carmine Falcone. And Jonathan, in his agreement with the boss, testified that Zsasz was legally insane, and a danger. He needed to be moved into the asylum. Not the prison.

Jonathan had been convincing. He left the courthouse thinking he would go back to his asylum and play with his toys, but that pest of a DA couldn't leave him alone.

"You really think that a man who butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?"

Jonathan continued his gait, rolling his eyes as she spoke. He hated her. He hated Rachel Dawes like he hated the pathetic justice system of Gotham…the system that she and he were a part of. Well…she was more focused on justice. Crane just needed to be convincing in front of a jury.

"Well I hardly would have testified to that otherwise would I Miss Dawes?"

He could sense the woman's hatred for him as she began to question his motives. Again. It was getting quite tiresome. And that voice of hers was like nails scratching on a chalkboard. He found her attractive, but extremely annoying. He would never even dream of a relationship with this woman. Jonathan gave a sigh as she continued to talk about how he had kept another one of Falcone's men out of jail time.

"The work offered by organized crime must have an attraction to the insane," Jonathan butted in, his voice soft and calm, as if this were some everyday conversation. He continued on his way.

"Or the corrupt."

Jonathan slowed, her words catching his attention. He could practically see her smirk behind him, knowing that he would turn around and defend himself. But Jonathan knew better. Ahead of him stood the figure of her superior, Mr. Finch, the DA.

"Mr. Finch!" The man's head glanced up at the thin pale man in a fine tailored suit. "I think you should check with Miss Dawes here just what implications your office has authorized her to make." He wanted to cast a look back at her, but restrained himself and hinted at a small smile. "If any."

Dawes opened her mouth to retort, but Crane's receding back and her boss's voice quickly kept her quiet. She was good in one sense…at least she knew it was time to keep that big mouth of hers shut.

Jonathan rose, unsteadily, to his feet and shuffled towards the back of the barn. His horse slept idly by, not even bothering to look up as he heard his owner's footsteps. He knew it was only Jonathan and he in the barn.

Jonathan dunked his hands in a bucket, plunging them into the icy water inside. He felt his hair stand on end, awoken by the shock of cold from his hands, and even more-so when he splashed the water on his face.

He hadn't been able to sleep well for the past few nights it seemed. So many memories…haunting his every dream. It was as if his twisted mind had become so entangled, it didn't know when to stop working…turning his time for rest into a struggle to keep dark images and screams out of his head. He would fall asleep with the vision of their eyes…the eyes of those he had hurt since his escape from Arkham. The accusatory glares and horrified looks that swirled around his mind, intermingled with the softly cooed comforts of the Scarecrow.

Jonathan never felt regret for what he had done. He felt confused, and frightened. He recalled the images of childhood…the constant beatings, the verbal and physical abuse he suffered from his mother and her boyfriends, the rejection of his job as a professor…Jonathan slid against the back wall and went limp as he hit the ground.

He wanted the voices out of his head. He didn't want these memories; He didn't want to remember his failure in life, he didn't want the screams and shrieks of fear piercing his dreams. All he wanted was peace and quiet.

You'll never get that, Jonathan…you've been very bad. Bad boys don't get what they want. They SUFFER the consequences…

Jonathan rolled his head in an effort to disagree. "Haven't I suffered enough? I have no money…no food…I thought taking the job with Ducard and Falcone would keep me protected."

They did protect you. You had muscle, courtesy of Falcone. You had supplies, from Ducard. Everything was fine…until you went and blabbed to Falcone about Rachel Dawes. If she hadn't have gotten suspicious, she wouldn't have discovered us.

And Jonathan wouldn't have gotten sprayed by his own creation. He wouldn't have gone completely insane in the hands of that bat character, and he probably would be back at Arkham now, testing his chemicals on more patients.

Jonathan shook his head, holding it between his palms as he massaged his temples. "No, no, no…no. I would have been caught. Rachel was smart. Gordon was smart. That stupid bat was smart too."

But not smarter than us, Jonathan. Not smarter than you.

Jonathan closed his eyes. He knew what this was. He was going to have a breakdown. He was physically strained. No food, little supplies, sleeping in the chilled winter air as a storm was just around the corner. Despite the thrill and excitement he got from indulging his passion for fear, it neither keep him warm, nor physically satisfied.

Jonathan clenched his teeth, fighting hard to keep the angry tears from his eyes. He had stopped crying as a little boy. He refused to cry ever again. They taunted him and hurt him and laughed when Jonathan cried. So one day, he just stopped altogether.

Now, however, it seemed even the scarecrow couldn't keep him together. Jonathan rocked back and forth, just like so many of the mental patients he studied. He fiddled with his hair in one hand and chewed his thumb in the other.

Jonathan, I will not lose you.

"I'm already lost…" he murmured, closing his eyes as he rocked.

No…you will not lose this battle. You were a man of such repute. You struck fear into them, Jonathan. Do not let them win. Strike them!

"I can't…" Jonathan breathed. "I can't win. Not now. I'm…I'm so hungry. I'm cold…I'm tired. I need…help."

I will feed you. I will clothe you. I will help you Jonathan.

"HOW!" Jonathan roared, starting to his feet and glaring up into the darkened rafters as if someone were watching him from them. "How can you if you are only a part of me! I…I CREATED you! You aren't even REAL!" Jonathan spun on his feet. "I…You…You're a part of my mind! MY MIND! How the hell will you help me!"

Suddenly, everything fell silent. Jonathan stood in a large patch of light cast from a hole in the roof. He breathed heavily, his breath illuminated by the pale moonlight. He looked around with suspicious blue eyes. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Was he truly rid of his madness?

Let me lead you, Jonathan…I will bring you home.

Jonathan's eyebrows furrowed into a sort of pathetic look. Was that the truth? Or another fib of the Scarecrow? "Home?"

Do what I say…and you will go home. I promise. Food, warmth…I promise you Jonathan.

Jonathan pursed his lips and placed a fragile white hand to his pale face. Food. Warmth. Home. He wanted that. No more power struggles. That would wait until he got his strength back.

"Fine." He looked up at the haphazard throne in the middle of the barn as stood like a darkened mess of sticks and wood. "Fine."

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

Bruce Wayne leaned back into his chair as Alfred poured a piping hot kettle of tea into his cup. "Slow night, Master Bruce?"

"Alfred, I've been on this case for weeks now. Two people are dead. One man went insane. I know who this is Alfred."

"And it's driving you mad that you can't do anything about it, isn't that so?"

Bruce rested his chin on his knuckles and closed his eyes. "This is my city. No one strikes fear into my city. Not even the Scarecrow."

Alfred frowned. "How do you know it's the Scarecrow, Master Bruce?"

"It points to Jonathan Crane. Everything." Bruce held up a pad of paper he had been scribbling on. "His mother is murdered. Next, a professor at the college he used to work at is killed, then a former student of his goes insane. Everything ties him to it…I just…I can't tell where he's going to strike next."

Alfred held up the paper and stared at it. "Mother, colleague, student…Master Bruce, he's going in order."

Bruce glanced up as he placed his cup of tea to his lips. "What do you mean?"

"Childhood. Mother. Young adult. Professor and Student. What stage would be next. He can't hardly be more than thirty, could he?"

Bruce blinked, an idea slowly forming in his head. "He's going after people that have hurt him. People came forward saying that while these three victims were good people, all had emotional ties to Crane. His mother was abusive, the professor was a bully, and the student got Crane fired. It's a pattern, Alfred…" And if Crane was going after people who had hurt him…

Bruce blinked, his eyes widening. "Rachel."

"Sir?"

"He's going for Rachel next. Either Rachel, or Batman. I know it, Alfred. I know it!"

A/N: Personally, my favorite chapter. Sure, Jonathan's a little...nuttier in this part of the story. I hope it's not too much of a stretch. But, I wanted to show how, when broken down and left with nothing, man can truly lose himself. :D I hope you guys got that.

Thanks to those who have reviewed (two people, but, it's a start!), and I hope those of you reading are enjoying the story so far. It makes me heart swell to see those hits getting higher each day. Love you all!

...Amazon...