A/N: I'm so sorry for not updating sooner. I've had a lot of trouble with my schoolwork lately, and desperately needed to catch up. I hope you like this chapter. I think there are only two or three left, and you will get to see a big confrontation between Bats and the Joker. And, for all you Craniacs, he makes an appearance in this chapter.

Chapter 9: Something Wicked

December 11

8:02 pm. Dr. Arthur Stanford was a calm man, by nature. He was also the fourteenth person to take the position as head of Arkham Asylum since it had reopened, seven months earlier. Unlike the others, he never picked up his pace when he walked by the Scarecrow's cell, never once dropped his gaze below the madman's eyes. Jonathan Crane still believed the asylum to be his domain, and had succeeded in frightening all of his successors out of the position. The last one had jumped headfirst into the river, screaming that she was on fire. She hadn't come up for air again. Dr. Stanford was dead certain that the old director had a hidden cache of his fear toxin somewhere, and he was determined to find it. So he ignored the pleased smile that twisted Crane's face as he spoke through the glass barrier, and continued to ask him questions.

"I'll ask you again, Crane, and again and again, until you tell me," the doctor said evenly, "Where is it?"

"I'm not Jonathan Crane."

"And I won't call you Scarecrow. Where is it?"

Crane grinned, "Oh, you'll never find it. I've hidden it deep and dark and…" he trailed off, his hand started shaking, "and the bats will come out at night, flying and wheeling and screaming…" he whispered, eyes wide and no longer smug.

Dr. Stanford turned. There was no one behind him. Crane was hallucinating again. Stanford rubbed his forehead tiredly. He needed to go home and get some rest. There would be more time to try and find the "medicine" in the morning. Crane had retreated to the far corner of his cell, and was mumbling incoherently under his breath. Every few seconds, he'd reach up and swipe at something that wasn't there. Stanford distinctly thought he heard something about crows. That would make sense. Crane's profile had mentioned a fear of birds. The psychotic psychoanalyst continued to mutter and cower, and his doctor knew that he wouldn't be getting anything more out of the madman on this night. He didn't notice the shadow that dropped from the ceiling as he walked away, and attributed the subsequent scream to more hallucinating.

8:02 pm. The Joker regarded his reflection carefully. His skin was too pale and his lips too red. And, of course, there was his hair, so bright and green and brazen. He laughed, suddenly, to the surprise of the three men sitting at the table behind him. It was never a good thing when the Joker laughed, they had learned. Last time, the fourth man had ended up with a little flag sticking out of his chest, the word BANG! written in yellow and highlighted in bright purple on it. The purple had soaked up the blood, becoming darker and darker. All because it was Thursday and the Joker decided he was bored.

Jimmy Erins, a squat man with graying brown hair, turned in his seat, "Uh, hey boss?" he asked, the tremor in his voice horribly hidden behind a false smile, "What's so funny?"

The Joker turned, his inhuman grin stretched ear to ear, "Why, me, Jimmy, of course," and he laughed again. Then he stood, swinging his long legs around the stool he sat on, and strode over to the three, "We've got business tonight. There's a billionaire who's been giving too much to the poor lately," he held up a gas can, the impossible grin stretching even wider, "It's time he gave to more… deserving charities."

8:02 pm. Selina ran a hand across the calico cat's back, eliciting a delighted purr from the cat, "There's a good girl," she smiled approvingly, "You're filling out nicely."

She glanced around the room, looking at the collection of kitties lounging about the place. They always showed up en force in wintertime, taking advantage of the warmth the apartment offered. She sighed and arched her own back. The Cat was itching to get out again. It wanted to find something pretty to play with, but Selina was still reminded of Leah, looking at the room.

"I take in strays," Leah had looked at her blankly, "I'll take you in, too."

Maybe it had been the wrong thing to say. But Selina doubted anything she said could've prevented the disappearing act the girl had pulled. The Cat scratched at the door of her mind. It had an idea. She reached into the closet and pulled out the suit, purple leather shining dully in the fluorescent light. Two minutes later, she was wrapping her whip around her waist, belt-like, and tucking a small black pouch into it. The leather was soft and supple, moving like a part of her. And it was a part of her, after years of wear, the catsuit was wonderfully comfortable. She slipped out of a window- exiting from a door as Catwoman was downright crazy- and shimmied down a fire escape. The night was pregnant with possibility. She could find Leah, if she just looked in the right places. And, if she was lucky, she might even see the Bat again. He was fun to play with.

8:02 pm. Leah knew her body was damaged. Soon, it would be beyond repair. But she also knew that she needed to accomplish what she had come to do in the first place before she could let herself die. She was sore and bruised, not to mention pretty well cut up. If she wasn't careful, she might not make it past tonight. She needed to find the Joker soon.

The fragmented mirror watched as she pulled her black pants on carefully, avoiding the bullet hole. Her shirt, also black, was a little harder to maneuver, but she managed it. Then came the shoes, a pair of black leather boots, soft-soled, that would have been a birthday present from her mother. The ironwood eskrima sticks, from her father, fit into a black bag slung across her back. And tucked into her shirt was an onyx circle. Her brother's gift. It represented life, the never-ending cycle. She fingered it absently as she left the building, and again as she climbed a rooftop by the docks. Crime was rampant in these parts. If she was patient, she might find the man she was looking for.

8:02 pm. Batman dropped from the ceiling in front of Crane's cell, a scowl twisting his lips, "Crane," he growled, and received a scream in return. Wonderful, he thought, This will take a while. Out loud, he said, "Where is the toxin?"

Crane shuddered, huddling in the corner, "I can't tell, no, not allowed," but he shrunk away when Batman edged closer, "No!" he cried, "I can't! I can't!"

Batman paused for a moment, thinking. Crane thrived on fear. If he found out how badly someone had been affected by it, it might make it easier to question him, "There is someone who was affected by your toxin in a way that you haven't seen," he watched the doctor shift slightly. The man didn't move any more, but he'd stopped muttering. Batman continued, "She had to take a dose of the antidote every day. Then her parents were killed. It may have released another side to her…"

Crane cut him off, "Disassociate identity disorder," his blue eyes were shining, almost feverish. He no longer looked frightened, but stood shakily and walked over to the door, "Traumatic events sometimes trigger the formation of disparate ego-states, resulting in loss of memory and alternating interaction within societal parameters- emotional dysregulation." Batman listened intently. Crane was speaking in near-gibberish for anyone who didn't know about psychology, but Batman knew that he was describing the phenomenon more commonly called split personality disorder. A few psychology classes before he'd left Princeton had afforded him at least that much information. Crane continued at an erratic pace, "The two separately functioning states then proceed to degenerate into anything from mild psychosis to homicidal mania," he grinned eerily, and Batman shuddered mentally. Crane grinning was not a pretty sight.

"What can be done to reverse it?" he snarled, tired of the psycho-babble.

"Full recovery is rare, but treatment may help reduce the occurrence of psychosomatic episodes…" he trailed off, looked straight into Batman's face, and suddenly seemed to realize where he was, "Goodbye," he said simply, and proceeded to return to his corner and resume his huddled muttering.

Batman swept out of the asylum. A freezing rain had begun to fall, turning the streets to ice. The moon hid herself behind a clump of clouds, and Gotham welcomed its dark night.

P.S. If you are reading my Superman story, I'll try to have the next chapter up in a day or two. Minor writer's block, and major homework.