2. Wake Up

Dr. Jonathan Crane woke up, confused. He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten there. On second thought, he couldn't remember much from the past few days. He remembered poisoning Miss Dawes, and waiting for the Batman to come. But not what happened after that. He must have blacked out at some point. Which led him to assume that he must be in Arkham. Or perhaps the police station. He gauged his surroundings, careful not to appear awake. He did not want anyone to know that he was conscious until he had figured something out.

He was on a couch. That was odd. It wasn't the sort that was kept in his office; it was the kind that people kept in their living rooms. In fact, he felt like he was probably in someone's home. That was even stranger. He had a terrible headache, and his cheek throbbed dully. Why did his face hurt? He thought back, wondering. Something… something about Miss Dawes… A Taser! She'd shot him with a taser because… because of what? Because he had been terrorizing her. It was starting to come back. He'd lost his mind for a little while, and gone gallivanting off on someone's horse. Odd. And she'd shot him with her taser.

So, had the plan worked? He didn't think so. But where was he? And how had he regained sanity? The Batman must have defeated Ra's al Ghul before he could get the toxin into the air. Which was alright. The plan to destroy the city certainly wasn't one that he had been aware of before. He would never have agreed to that. At least, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have. It wasn't particularly beneficial to him. So, clearly, someone had found him in the street and taken him into their home. But why? And who? Was it merely some citizen who didn't know who or what he was? Or was it one of Ra's thugs? Or even Falcone's thugs?

Well, he reasoned, he was alive. So, if they had intended to kill him, it hadn't worked. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He tried to think back and remember everything he knew from the past few days, in hopes of figuring something out. Nothing. Well, he certainly wasn't going to learn anything by just laying there.

He opened his eyes. His guess was correct; he did appear to be in the living room of a small apartment. Of course, his view was composed chiefly of the ceiling, but he could see parts of the room as well. He rolled slowly onto his side, wincing at the pain in his head. Perhaps he had fallen off the horse and gotten a slight concussion. He also noticed a small pain in his arm, but that was not an immediate problem, so he didn't dwell on it. Another problem was the fact that he didn't have his glasses. But he could see well enough. He noticed that his couch was perpendicular to the wall, where another couch was. There was a small television set in the corner opposite them. To the right of the television was the front door, which was dead bolted a few times over.

He started at that. It meant, of course, that who ever lived here was certainly inside. They weren't all locks that could be opened from the outside. So, he wasn't alone after all. Since he was in the front of the apartment, he had no idea how big it was, or where his host, or hostess, might be.

He decided against lifting himself enough to look over his couch. He was too tired to meet anyone now, especially since he would have to evaluate whether that person was a friend or not. And whether they knew who he was. He would have to formulate a person to pretend to be later. Just in case. But that could wait. He was tired, and his head ached. Now, it was time to go back to sleep. Saving his skin could be dealt with when he woke. It wasn't as though he had anything to do with his life now. He was certainly going to have his license revoked, and would either be a patient in his own asylum, or in jail for the rest of his comparatively short life. So, there wasn't really anything worth getting concerned over. Might as well sleep, he thought to himself.

When he woke again, it was darker than it had been before. He looked immediately at the locks, and saw that some were not fastened. It was likely that the owner was gone, then. Jonathan couldn't decide if that was good news or not. He could escape, but he had no where to go. And he might find an ally if he stayed. The outcomes of either choice were impossible to determine. So, he decided to take a look around.

He rose gingerly, his head aching terribly at his every movement. In addition, he was sore most everywhere. He didn't know if that was the result of lying on the couch, or of whatever he'd done after falling off his horse. Presumably he'd just lain in the street until he'd been found and brought here. Wherever "here" was.

Jonathan looked around as soon as he was steady on his feet. Beyond the living room was a small, and quaintly furnished, kitchen, as well as a door which he assumed was a bathroom. Past the kitchen was an office of some sort. It had an old oak desk with a computer on it, as well as a disorganized stack of papers. All of which were covered with dust. On the opposite wall of the office was a door out onto a balcony. The narrow apartment was walled in after that, with only a closed door leading to the bedroom.

He decided that the desk was probably the best bet in order to discover where he was. There would certainly be important documents there, hopefully ones with the name of the resident on them. He walked carefully in the direction, trying not to make any sudden movements. He lifted a hand to the wounds on his face, touching them curiously. Perhaps the electricity had something to do with his return to relative sanity. He took stock of himself. He felt only a little differently than he had before. He was still calm and collected all the time, still cold and distant, still cunning and clever. But no longer having a reason to be. He didn't know if the fact that he was truly alone made his desire to frighten people less, or if it had actually gone from him. He supposed he'd find that out later.

He shook his head gingerly to clear his thoughts. Pulling out the desk chair, he sat down to search through the papers on the desk. Most of the papers were magazines and newspapers, with articles circled and cut out. He couldn't find any similarity between the articles. Here was one about the Batman, another about Bruce Wayne. One about some robbery in Asia. Another about himself. That one made him a little nervous. Some of the articles were more mundane, detailing museum exhibits and other things like that. Some of these had another article attached, which detailed the theft of that item.

Suddenly, Jonathan heard something. It was a key at the door. He froze, indecisive. Should he hide? Or should he return to pretend to sleep on the couch? Well, there was hardly enough room to hide. But perhaps the closet next to the bathroom. He rushed to it, ignoring the dizzying pain in his head. He opened the door, and shoved himself in amongst the winter coats, closing the door behind him. He held very still, scarcely daring to breathe.

He heard the front door open, followed by the clicking of heels on the tile. The door closed, and was locked. But the person did not move beyond that. He waited, feeling fear as he had not felt it for years: real fear, not induced by chemicals. Then, the footsteps began to move forward, followed by a pleasant female voice.

"Dr. Crane? Where are you?"