AN: I promise I don't hate Bullock that much. It's just…pumpkin. I couldn't help myself, honest.

Johanna Crane-Don't encourage her. Jonathan, love, I did everything but come down in a trench coat. Something had to be done. A snare trap. It got you to hold still, didn't it? I believe that could be referred to as 'kidnapping'. Pot. Kettle.

The annual Wayne Charity Event usually takes place in October, but very seldom does it take place on Halloween. But this year, for whatever reason, it's a costume party on October thirty-first, held in-oh, how unfortunate-the old theatre, the one that shut down after he paid it a visit a few years ago.

Naturally, he can't resist going.

He gives them time to get nice and tipsy-and in some cases outright drunk-before decapitating the guard with his scythe and walking right in.

"Your name, Sir?"

"Jonathan Crane."

"You're not on the guest list…"

"Gate-crashing."

The butler's head rolls along, coming to a stop under the hall table. The body stays on its feet for another minute before collapsing to the ground, a spray of blood still coming from the neck.

"The only problem with this is that it's messy." he says, wiping the blade on the butler's back.

"That's one way of putting it. Hold on, you've got a spot on your forehead…there."

"Thank you. Shall we?"

She steps around the still slightly-jerking corpse and takes his arm.

"Ready when you are."

The party is in full swing, with the drinks flowing freely and the music loud enough to hurt. Nobody notices them, and why would they? They're just two more people dressed up for the evening.

There's three policemen here tonight-no Gordon, but Bullock and two others whose names he can't remember. Hm. Bullock complicates things a bit. He's trigger-happy. Oh, well. There's enough people in here that he might think twice.

Hopefully.

"Shall I get their attention?"

"Would you? I don't know that I can shout at them right now. Still a little raspy from that cold…"

"Sure, love."

BLAM!

The shot takes out the stereo and silences the partygoers. Much better.

"Happy Halloween." Bullock moves as if to draw his weapon and Kitty fires a warning shot in his general direction. It clips somebody's ear before embedding itself in a Jack-o-Lantern. Bullock is spattered with pumpkin.

"I'm sorry to drop in like this, but I couldn't resist. It's been a long time since we attended a celebration."

"What do you want, Crane?" Bullock calls from his corner.

"You shouldn't interrupt. Quite rude. But no matter…I don't really want anything. Thought I'd pay you all a visit and see how you party was coming along."

He leans on the scythe, enjoying the waves of terror. It's thick enough to taste, just about-seasoned with fury and confusion. Perfect.

"We're not afraid of you." He doesn't know this person, and he would like them to get out of his personal space bubble, thank you very much.

"You should be."

"Fuck off." The man's drunk-he's swaying badly. Does he think this is a bar fight? "Fuck off, freak." He flails and finds his hands knocked aside. "Hey!"

The angry expression is still on his face even when his head is bouncing on the floor. There's a gunshot from behind him and somebody nearby drops dead.

"Great shot." he says. "Truly. If you wish to kill any more innocent civilians, go right ahead. I don't mind."

Kitty muffles a small laugh at that.

"So. How are we all doing this evening? Well, apart from being drunk and scared."

"Shut up, Crane! Put your hands up!"

"After that stellar display of marksmanship?" He snorts. "I could do better than that. Now be quiet, this has nothing to do with you. God, any idiot can be a policeman these days…Detective Bullock, you've got a bit of pumpkin still in your hair, by the way."

He shoves the body out of the way with his scythe, cutting it up a bit more in the process. Whoops.

Now, where would be the best vantage point…? Ah. Right there, by the punch bowl. A few years of Arkham parties has taught him that the punch bowl is the best place for people-watching. And the safest-nobody ever tries to grind against somebody by the punch bowl-what if something spills? Then there will be no drinks, and they'll be stuck with tap water.

"I am here, ladies and gentlemen, to study the effects of my toxin on a group of intoxicated adults. Now, before I begin, does anybody have any heart conditions?" Nobody speaks. "You're quite sure? Is anybody taking any medications?" Still nothing. "All right, then. Thank you so much for your cooperation."

He reaches over for the nearest person-a woman dressed as a…he's not actually sure. There's neon fishnet and those tacky glasses with plastic bars where the lenses should be. Eighties hooker? Whatever. She'll do as a hostage. Just until things get going, then she'll do as a subject.

He tosses a few capsules into the crowd. There's a general stampede towards the door, but that won't help them. He made sure to lock them when he came in. No, here they are and here they'll stay until further notice. If he needs to make a break for it, there's always the window.

It doesn't take long for the gas to spread. Even Bullock is not immune, and within five minutes he's on the floor with the rest of them. There's something oddly satisfying about the sight.

He shoves the eighties hooker away from him when she starts to gasp-damn, sounds like she's got asthma-and leans against the table with a glass of the punch. It's not bad, actually.

"No mask?"

"It's nice to actually see what's going on sometimes."

She nods and leans against his side, the gun hanging from her fingers. It goes off a minute later and the eighties hooker drops to the floor.

"Wonder how that happened."

He shakes his head and pulls his notebook out of his pocket. He has some notes to take.

THE END