I can't believe it.

I actually finished Chapter Two. After handwriting the whole damn thing, editing it, re-editing it, rewriting some of it, typing it all up, and then editing some more, I have actually finished it.

I also presented the previous chapter to my writing class, and everyone seemed to like it. Though apparently I gave my teacher and one student nightmares. In any case, out of all of the people I showed the story, the only person who didn't like it was my mother. One kid did say, "I'm pretty sure they'd have noticed if 'Jackson' had ovaries." But he also said, "The ending's good, so I guess it's okay."

Anyway…

Some parts of this chapter may be confusing at first, because this chapter was supposed to go on a lot longer than it is right now. I ended up cutting it when I realized how much I'd already written for just the first half. Anyway, if there's anything that leaves you confused in the chapter, it'll probably be cleared up in subsequent chapters.

THE ONE WARNING: There are no warnings. Proceed with caution.

----------

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

No One Ever Said Insanity Was Taboo

----------

Jackson had earned the nickname 'Jack the Ripper' when he was fourteen years old. As a freshman in high school, almost all of the upperclassmen didn't realize (or had forgotten) what a frightening person Jackson truly was. Whatever rumors they heard about his torture of fellow students or the dead animals in his backyard seemed to go in one ear and out the other. All they could see when they looked at him was a pale, scrawny kid.

Too often, older students made a point of taunting Jackson or shoving him around, drawn to the fact that he was both a loner and a weakling. Jackson tolerated it for a while, knowing that his tormentors were stronger than him, and that, in time, he would get his sweet revenge.

That didn't stop his temper, though, and it took all his self-control not to throttle some of them. His notebooks were soon littered with drawings of dead students, all of them decapitated or mutilated in the most grotesque fashions imaginable. Jackson would soothe himself by telling himself, over and over again, that they'd get theirs soon enough.

One day, Jackson was eating lunch in the school cafeteria. Behind him, a senior from the football team was making out with his daily blowjob provider, noisily moaning and cooing at each other, pretending that they weren't both sleeping with other people when their backs were turned. Jackson all but threw up from having to listen to them.

After a few minutes of this agony, Jackson turned around, stating, "Would it kill you two to go find a room!" He gave a disgusted sigh before turning back to his sandwich, knowing full well that the jock was going to retaliate, probably in a painful manner.

"What the fuck's his problem? Were we bothering him?"

"Nope."

Jackson turned around again, smirking, "My problem is that I'm trying to eat, yet I seem to have a B-grade porn going on directly next to me."

The jock laughed stupidly, as though Jackson had just said something hilariously idiotic. "Did you hear that? Bet you he's jealous 'cuz he's never had a girl in his life."

"Well, at least I'm not screwing a girl that's cheating on you with the rest of the football team."

Jackson found it inwardly hysterical, the way that their jaws seemed to drop in unison. The jock turned to his girl toy, then looked back at Jackson. The girl stammered for a minute, saying, "It's not true, Steve! This guy's just being pissy."

Jackson smiled coldly. "I wouldn't get so defensive if I were you. After all, he's been sleeping with the head of the cheerleading squad ever since she got her implants done."

The football player stammered for a minute before turning beet red, screeching, "I ain't gonna listen to somebody talk about me or my girl like that!"

"Too late, you already hav-"

Jackson was cut off when the football player's fist connected unceremoniously with his jaw. Jackson fell out of his chair, blood flowing out of his face. The football jock walked over to him and kicked him square in the stomach.

"That'll teach you, you son of a bitch."

Jackson said nothing. He simply lay there as students gathered around to see what had happened, his jaw now aching like a royal bitch.

A few days later, Jackson had missed his bus and was wandering through the almost empty hallways, heading to his locker so that he could get his books and hitchhike home. He hardly even noticed the figure in the corner of his eye until he was at his locker, gathering his books.

Standing at the other end of the hallway was the football jock, smirking stupidly and watching Jackson like a lion watches an antelope. Jackson continued gathering his things, pretending not to see him as he tried to figure out what exactly he was planning to do.

Knowing the way these upperclassmen worked, Jackson was willing to bet that the jock wouldn't confront him at his locker. There were still some people lingering around. No, the jock would wait until they were in an empty hallway or room before exacting his revenge. Jackson racked his brain for an area of the school that would be clear at this time of the day.

The art wing.

Jackson threw on his backpack and shut his locker before walking nonchalantly in the direction of the art wing. As he had suspected, the jock followed him from a good distance, oblivious to the fact that Jackson could sense his presence.

As Jackson made his way down the art wing, he headed for the room furthest from the rest of the building. He wanted to make sure that no one would see or hear anything that happened in there, and that seemed to be the best location. He quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind him before he went to work. He knew he only had a few seconds before the jock would come in.

The jock, who still thought that Jackson had no idea that he was following him, jogged up to the art room door. He put his ear against the wood of the door, and, not hearing any sounds other than Jackson's footsteps, determined that it was safe to go in. Grinning, he quickly pushed open the door, hoping to scare the younger boy.

He was swiftly greeted by a metal folding chair to the forehead.

The football player grunted in pain before falling to the ground, unconscious. Jackson kicked him in the side, making sure that he was in no state to fight back. After making sure that he was, in fact, out cold, Jackson hit him a few more times with the folding chair, just for the hell of it.

Having satisfied himself with that much, Jackson pulled out the Exacto knife he had raided from the art supply closet. Smiling, Jackson unceremoniously flipped the larger boy onto his stomach. He rolled up the boy's shirt, exposing his pink, fleshy back. Jackson flicked the cap off of the tiny blade, a maniacal look on his face as he made a series of sharp, shallow cuts in the boy's back.

For the next week, the football team was missing its star receiver. Rumor had it that he was in the hospital for a concussion, though no one seemed to know how or why. When he returned to school, he seemed almost unwilling to talk about it. Whenever anyone questioned him about his hospital stay, he would become defensive, snapping that it was nobody else's business.

The secret stayed well-hidden, until the football team's next practice. Try as he might to hide it, the entire team saw that his back was covered in a series of long, white scars. Even stranger, the scars seemed to connect to form letters, spelling out an eerie message:

"BEWARE THE REVENGE OF JACK THE RIPPER."

The rumors spread rapidly once the jock told the "real story" regarding his stay at the hospital. Apparently, Jackson had been out to get him for weeks now, for reasons that the jock seemed unable to contemplate. Jackson had cornered him in the art room, screeching incoherently about nothing in particular before hammering him on the head with the folding chair.

Jackson didn't care that everyone was spreading blatant lies about the incident. If anything, he encouraged them. Before, he had been the pale weakling that couldn't put up a fight if he tried. Now, he was an entity of terror, a demon roaming the hallways. He was respected. He was feared.

It was the beginning of Jackson Crane's demise, and of Jackson Rippner's birth from the ashes.

----------

Jackson squinted as he stared up at the grungy apartment building in front of him. The wood was rotting, the bricks were covered in graffiti, and the litter by the front of the building left a pungent smell.

Jackson glanced once again at the scrap of paper in his fingers. 815 Norman Avenue, the Narrows, Apartment #48. Again, Jackson looked up at the number of the apartment building. Eight fifteen.

Jackson quickly opened his briefcase, checking it to make sure that everything inside was still safe and intact. After assuring himself that everything was, in fact, still in the briefcase, Jackson stuffed the scrap of paper inside. He ran a hand through the blond wig on his head, still reeling from the smell of the surrounding buildings. Quietly, he made his way up the steps to the apartment complex, trying his best not to be noticed.

----------

On the other side of the Narrows, Jonathan Crane was exiting Arkham Asylum with a migraine pounding furiously against his skull. It had been a long day of dealing with psychopaths, and matters hadn't been helped by an impromptu visit from Rachel Dawes. His ears were still ringing from having to listen to her indignant screeching.

"I don't care what you say about Tom Collins' diagnosis, he is a murderer! A murderer! I don't give a shit whether or not he's mentally ill, he should be punished. And isn't it a little convenient that this is the second time that a thug linked to Falcone has been put away in your asylum, where there's lax security and piss whine moan bitch indignation complain anger huff dismissal."

Whiny bitch.

Jonathan fumbled for his car keys for a few seconds before unlocking his car, the migraine continuing its painful throbbing.

Despite what Ms. Dawes might have believed, Tom Collins was most definitely not sane. At least, not any more. The toxin that Jonathan had been developing had left irreversible brain damage, leaving Mr. Collins a gibbering mess.

By Jonathan's watch, the damage had been complete within twenty minutes.

Remembering this, Jonathan smiled a little as he drove away from Arkham. He'd been developing his fear toxin for months, and it had been completed only recently. As of late, Jonathan had been focusing less on effectiveness and more on the effects of different concentrations. A light amount gave the victim hallucinations, but could be cured if given the antidote within twenty-four hours. With a medium dose, the victim would need to be cured within six hours. A concentrated dose would leave you practically brain-dead within a half-hour.

Jonathan would have good news to tell Ducard.

----------

Back at the apartment, Jackson glanced around the room. He noted his surroundings with a vague curiosity as he entered the apartment, putting his briefcase down by the door. He shut the door behind him firmly before proceeding any further.

The room seemed much cleaner than Jackson had expected, having seen the building's exterior. There was no dust on the shelves, nothing lying on the ground, and everything was stacked neatly away. Jackson shuddered when he considered the compulsive cleanliness that would be necessary to maintain such a tidy abode.

The place seemed completely awash in beiges and grays, and the only splashes of color were faded and dull. Nothing in the room was put there for decoration; not a plant, not a picture, not even a nice rug. The only windows in the room were small and covered with drab, white drapes. The rooms had the cold, sterile feeling of a morgue. Even the air seemed to go still and die. Basically, it was an interior decorator's version of hell.

Jackson wandered around, trying to get a feel for the place. Try as he might, though, the whole apartment was…nothingness.

Jackson fumbled around with a doorknob off to the side before making his way into the apartment's bathroom. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Jackson stared quizzically at his reflection. Staring back was a blond man, his hair containing streaks of gray that betrayed a hint of some age. His dull brown eyes stared at Jackson, the light wrinkles in his skin suggesting that he was in his later forties or early fifties.

Jackson smirked before ripping the wig off his head and removing the contacts from his eyes. He then took a wash towel and began rubbing off the makeup that caked his skin.

Five minutes later, Jackson's brown-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-nine year-old self was reflected on the mirror's surface.

Smiling, Jackson picked up the wigs and the contacts and returned to the front part of the apartment. He opened his briefcase, shoved the items inside, then carried the suitcase with him as he went over to a grey, depressing sofa. Plopping the suitcase down next to him, Jackson decided to get comfortable inside this morgue of an apartment, even if it killed him. It wasn't as though he had much of a choice.

----------

Jonathan slammed his car door shut as he exited the vehicle, irritated by the bad drivers that he'd had to endure throughout the rush hour traffic. Tailgating, rubbernecking, general recklessness…he'd been tempted to deliberately crash his car into some of them, just so they'd never bother him again. He'd managed to keep that particular urge under control, but cold composure was difficult to maintain with a rising temper.

In any case, Jonathan was not in the kindest of moods as he made his way up the stairs to his apartment. Knowing how things had gone throughout the day, Jonathan expected to find rats running around everywhere, an angry notice from his landlord about forgetting the rent that he'd already paid, and a bitchy message from Rachel Dawes on his answering machine.

Turning the knob on the apartment door, Jonathan was surprised to find it unlocked. Pushing it open cautiously, Jonathan half expected to see all his possessions either missing or destroyed.

Instead, he saw his mirror image sitting on his sofa, smiling non-chalantly as though his appearance were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hey there, baby brother."

----------

Jackson had continued to be enamored with Jack the Ripper even after the incident in the art room. After a few months of testing his new title, he became frightened by the fact that, despite using his name everywhere, Jackson still didn't know very much about the man. Jackson decided that he'd have to do what he thought he'd never do, ever since he'd first learned to hate school and everything it stood for:

He decided to do research.

After finding several books on the topic at the library, Jackson could be found curled up in the room he shared with Jonathan, simply reading and marveling at the murderer of so many years past. What his parents thought of this, he never found out. The likelihood was that they never even noticed. Jonathan, on the other hand, seemed puzzled to no end by Jackson's change of behavior.

"What are you reading?" he'd ask, a curious expression crossing his face before he attempted to look nonchalant.

"None of your business," Jackson would snap before he went on to read about the horrors done to Mary Kelly and others.

Jackson's reputation as 'Jack the Ripper' or 'Ripper Jr.' became more and more widespread throughout school, lending him more of a reputation. Not that he needed any more, but it still amused him. Watching kids twice his size and four years older than him specifically avoid him also made him crack a smile. It even got to the point where a freshman girl bumped into him in the hallway, saw who she had bumped into, then proceeded to burst into tears.

Jackson couldn't get enough of this. The strength he felt, the empowerment of it all…it was like a drug that swept over him every time someone tried to avoid his gaze. And as it continued, Jackson set out to do things more and more horrifying, just so that his reputation wouldn't wear off in time.

He remembered one particular instance when he'd walked by a science room where a group of students were about to dissect frogs. The frog corpses caught Jackson's eye, and he paused in the doorway of the biology classroom, grinning toothily. Eventually, the biology teacher noticed him standing there, and it almost seemed as if the poor man froze.

Jackson grinned even more. Word about him had reached the teachers, too.

"Is there something I can help you with, uh…"

Jackson leaned against the doorway, glancing around casually. "It's Jack."

"Jack…" The teacher said it as though it were painful, as though he were uttering some sort of blasphemy that he prayed would never reach his ears, "…is there something you want here?"

Jackson watched the other students out of the corner of his eye, seeing their discomfort and their nervousness. "Nothing, really. I just wanted to see what all of you were doing here."

The teacher swallowed. "We're about to dissect some frogs now, so if you wouldn't mind…"

"Oh, really? And what kind of dissections are you going to be doing?"

Again the teacher swallowed anxiously, and he practically stuttered when he replied, "Well, first we'll be making incisions in the chest area, then examining the heart..."

Jackson laughed. "The heart? That's all you're looking for?" The teacher began to respond, then thought better of it and remained quiet. Jackson smiled. "The heart's easy, once you know what you're doing." He strolled over to the lab table, where one scrawny boy sat with his frog in front of him. Ignoring the boy, Jackson took the frog out of its dissecting dish, choosing to plop it down on the flat surface of the lab table. Having done that, he pinched the skin of the frogs chest, making a tiny tear in the skin. Having done so, he used his fingers to slowly pull open the skin over the frog's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson could see the other students wince.

Having opened up the skin of the chest cavity, Jackson reached in and snapped open the dead frog's ribcage. Some of the students gasped, and almost all of them looked sick. The coup de grace came when Jackson plunged his hand in and pulled out the frog's tiny heart, holding it in his bloody palm and forever sealing his reputation as the town psychopath.

"Is this what you were looking for, teach?"

----------

If Jonathan was at all surprised to see Jackson sitting in his apartment when he arrived home, he certainly didn't show it. Instead, he calmly put down his briefcase, took off his coat, removed his glasses, then stared calmly at his older brother.

Jackson, not having expected such a calm reaction, stared back, smiling, in the hopes that Jonathan would be the one to break the silence. As the minutes passed, however, Jackson's smile slowly faded. Jonathan was remaining cold and silent, which bothered him. It also confused Jackson; he hadn't seen his brother in thirteen years, and he'd expected…well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. Joy? Surprise? Astonishment? Hell, anything was better than the stony silence he was getting now.

After a few more minutes, Jackson cleared his throat, stating jovially, "Long time, no see, Scarecrow."

Jonathan continued with his calm stare for a few more seconds. Then, he turned to his left and walked towards the kitchen area, not saying a word or even pretending to acknowledge his brother's presence.

Jackson blinked before pretending to look hurt. "Aw, now, no hello? Not happy to see me, Scarecrow?" Jonathan continued to remain silent, rummaging through his refrigerator for a drink.

Jackson frowned, then stood up and walked over to where his brother was standing. Pretending that Jonathan wasn't ignoring him, Jackson reached inside the open refrigerator, grabbing a beer that looked so old that it was gathering dust. Jovially, he asked, "So, how are things here, Scarecrow? I heard you're a big-time doctor now. How's that working for you?"

Jonathan simply grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke, unscrewing the cap before walking back to the sofa. Jackson followed him, still talking. "Well, I suppose you'd like that just fine. You'd get to run around all day with a bunch of motherfuckers that are just as crazy as you. Sounds like your kind of fun."

Jonathan sipped his drink, staring straight ahead as he sat on the sofa, not seeming to see or hear anything. Jackson was growing increasingly frustrated, wondering why his brother was acting so cold. They hadn't seen each other in over a decade, yet Jonathan seemed not to care. The fact that he seemed so indifferent bothered Jackson more than he'd like to admit.

Jonathan stood up, brushing past Jackson as he headed to another part of the apartment. Jackson, not willing to let his brother go without a fight, grabbed the younger man's shoulder as he walked past.

When Jackson's hand touched Jonathan's shoulder, Jonathan jumped about a mile in the air. He whirled around, his face bearing an expression of anger, surprise, and vulnerability.

"Get your hand off of me."

----------

With his title firmly in place and his reputation ever worsening, Jackson spent the next two years as the most feared student at his high school. No one dared to bother him, and the rumors about him circulated about him like mad. One day, someone would say he was the devil incarnate. The next day, others would say that he was a Nazi. Day after that, someone would say that he was a spy.

Silently, he laughed at these rumors, but he never dared deny any of them. They were what gave him the status of a local celebrity. They were what gave him power over others.

Over those two years, however, his reputation starting getting to him. At first, all it had done was give him confidence. However, that confidence soon turned into unmitigated ego.

The more people feared him, the higher Jackson thought of himself. He knew full well that his ego was bloated, but he honestly didn't care: if everyone was terrified of him, then what was the point of being humble?

In the end, only one person seemed to not give a damn about Jackson's reputation: Jonathan. In a way, Jackson both hated this and respected this. He hated that his brother was not so easily awed, but he respected his high tolerance for fear.

He remembered lying on his bed in the room they both shared. He was drawing crude pictures of dismembered corpses while Jonathan did his homework on his own bed.

Frustrated, Jonathan crumpled up a ball of paper, tossing it away from him as he stared at his textbook.

"Jackson do you know anything about proofs?"

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "Have I ever given a shit about math before?"

Jonathan slammed his textbook closed. "I hate this! I hate these stupid math problems, and it's even worse when there aren't even any numbers!"

Jackson chuckled a little. "Why are you getting so worked up about math?"

"Because I have the math teacher from hell, that's why!"

Jackson said nothing, gleefully returning to his macabre sketches as Jonathan continued his rambling. Jackson was sketching a woman who had been strangled to death with her own intestines. The blood flowed delicately down her neck to form a small pool around her head, giving her the appearance of having a grotesque halo.

Jackson thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Not noticing his brother's distraction, Jonathan continued his nerdy ramblings to no one in particular about his demonic math teacher.

"…and she keeps going on and on about how logarithms are so easy! I mean, is she on crack! How the fuck thinks logarithms are easy!"

Noticing that he wasn't getting a response, Jonathan turned to watch Jackson continue his sadistic doodling. After a long pause, Jonathan stated blankly, "You're not even pretending to listen, are you?"

Ignoring his brother's question, Jackson handed the drawing over to his brother. "Here. What do you think?"

Jonathan frowned. "What the hell is it supposed to be?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Guess."

Jonathan pushed his glassed further up his nose, then peered at the sketch as though clinically analyzing it. "It's a fallen tree?"

Jackson gave off an exasperated sigh, as though this were the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "No." He pointed to the woman's neck. "She got strangled to death with her own intestines. See?"

Jonathan looked at it again before replying. "You really suck at drawing."

Jackson snatched away the piece of paper. "Idiot."

Jackson was always frustrated by Jonathan's lack of fear whenever they spoke. Hell, he was able to send everyone in his school running, yet he couldn't do anything to frighten Jonathan. But, then again, Jonathan was the master of fear; he reveled in his own fear and the fear of others.

It was a challenge, day to day, to try and scare Jonathan, but he was a savvy kid, and he knew most of Jackson's tricks ahead of time. This was even more infuriating for Jackson, who never seemed to know what exactly Jonathan would be up to next. And that scared him. He hated to admit it, but sometimes, Jonathan scared the shit out of him.

Jonathan leaned back on a pile of pillows on his mattress before asking, "You planning something again, Jackson? You know, with the drawing."

Snapping out of his reverie, Jackson smiled cruelly. "I was thinking of trying this out in the woods."

Jonathan considered this. "Got any ideas on what?"

Jackson thought for a moment. "Janet Rutt's cat keeps meowing its head off at night."

Jonathan nodded in agreement. "One intestine-strangled cat, coming right up." He looked over and saw that his brother was still staring at his sketch. "You gonna make out with that thing or what?"

"Oh, fuck you."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "Why are you so into that thing, any way?"

Jackson shrugged. "It's a step."

"A step? A step to what?"

Jackson turned to his brother, giving him a cruelly gleeful smile. "A step towards making them all afraid. Of me. Of us. By the time we leave this place, I want everyone in this fucking town to run away whenever one of us shows up."

Jonathan stared at him for a second, then laughed nervously. "You're not a god, you know."

It was Jackson's turn to laugh. "God? I don't wanna be God." He smirked. "I wanna be the devil."

----------

Jonathan moved away from his brother, his cold mask having replaced his look of surprise. Jackson followed him, knowing that his brother was going nowhere in particular, just so he could avoid Jackson.

Jackson was frustrated. This wasn't the teenage kid of thirteen years ago that he had expected to find. It bruised Jackson's ego to think that Jonathan couldn't give a damn that he was there. Starting to lose his temper, Jackson decided to at least get Jonathan to keep talking.

"You mad at me, Scarecrow?"

Again, the silent treatment.

"Well, I have to say, Scarecrow, I'm surprised. I mean, I come into your apartment, and what do I find? The saddest bachelor pad in existence."

Jonathan said nothing, but Jackson could see him wearing a dark look on his face.

"I mean, I'd have thought I'd find something indicating that an actual human being lived here. A TV, a radio, a computer, maybe. Photos of friends, girlfriends, whatever the hell kind of family you had when I left. I thought I'd at least find a membership card to the fucking bowling league or something."

Jonathan sat down while Jackson remained standing. Jonathan looked adamantly away from his brother, but Jackson could see the muscles in his mouth tighten.

He smiled. "You are mad at me, aren't you?"

More silence.

"You don't like to hear about that, do you? The fact that you have no life outside of that psychiatry job of yours. Even if you are in charge of the damn place, it still must be frustrating. No friends, no family, no hobbies. Nothing to focus on but your patients. And patients don't make the best company. After all, they're insane. But I suppose you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Jonathan chose not to respond. Instead, without looking at Jackson, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"What, I can't check up on my younger brother. I can't wonder how he's been, what he's been doing for the last thirteen years?

Jonathan seemed hardly convinced. "You waited thirteen years to investigate? Did that particular urge just appear recently, or is thirteen your lucky number?"

Jonathan was taunting back. Here was the boy of thirteen years ago.

"What, are you hurt? Is that the reason for the silent treatment? Were you worried that I was out with other boys and wouldn't come back to take you to prom?"

Jonathan made a look that clearly stated that he thought Jackson was being an ass. Jackson merely replied, "Don't act so offended. That's it, isn't it? You're pissed because big bad Jackson went off by himself, and you got left behind."

Jonathan stayed quiet, then reached for the briefcase that had been sitting at his side. Jackson walked back over to the kitchen area before throwing out his beer, which he hadn't even opened. It looked disgusting, anyway.

"Have you got any good drinks or-…"

Jackson would have continued, but when he turned back towards the den, he saw his brother watching him from beneath a burlap mask, a crude, seamed smile stitched into the fabric. A hangman's noose hung limply around his neck, adding a further touch of the sinister to his whole appearance.

But the most frightening part of it was Jonathan's cold blue eyes, which seemed to shine from beneath the burlap, smiling cruelly at Jackson's confusion.

Jackson laughed nervously. "What's this, Scarecrow?"

Jonathan didn't respond. Instead, a spray of powder filled the air. Surprised, Jackson gasped, inhaling the powder. As soon as he did, it seemed as though the real world had oozed away.

The seams of Jonathan's mask elongated to become hissing snakes that writhed and rattled ferociously. The walls melted away and became oceans of blood, with familiar corpses bobbing at the surface. The air filled with the sound of bullets whizzing by, and Jackson felt a sudden stab of pain in his shoulder. Looking down, he saw blood dribbling out of him like a river, and he felt nauseous and dizzy.

Glancing around helplessly, everything Jackson saw transformed into horrific images. As the dizziness swirled through his head like a drug, Jackson felt himself fall to the ground. His eyes began to close, and he knew he was losing consciousness. The last thing he saw was Scarecrow, standing in the center of the void, eyes blazing with the fire of triumph.