Sorry I took so long to update. Everything's been kind of hectic, between prom, graduation, Fourth of July, and a job hunt. Anyway, I come bearing fifteen more pages of Jonathan-Jackson goodness.

By the way, if anyone's interested, I have a new fic up called 'Salome's Dance'. It's a one-shot, and I'd be thrilled if you guys would read it and leave reviews.

Anyway, on with the fic!

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood
Fragile Normality

Stalking down the staircase as the sound of his alarm clock continued to ring in his ears, Jonathan rubbed his eyes and yawned. He made his way down the steps slowly, as if by doing so he could delay breakfast, delay school, delay everything to the point where he could return to his warm sheets and pillow.

Padding tiredly into the kitchen, Jonathan could see Helen and Tyler already seated at the table. Helen was absentmindedly munching a bagel as she reviewed the newspaper, while Tyler chomped on sugary cereal as he attempted to make sense of the comics section. As Jonathan entered, Helen looked up at him and smiled warmly. "Morning, Jonathan." He mumbled a "good morning" in reply, vaguely wondering how his relatives could be such morning people before making his way to one of the kitchen's cabinets. There, he grabbed a box of Pop-tarts, extracted a pastry, and then made his way back to his seat, quarry in hand. Unceremoniously, he unwrapped his breakfast from its plastic trappings before proceeding to eat it cold.

By the time his pastry had been chewed and swallowed, he was starting to feel less groggy. With slightly more energy, he walked to the refrigerator to grab a can of soda, trying to remember if he had put all of his books in his backpack the night before. If not, he had the joy of scouring his room for his textbooks to look forward to. Once he had his drink in his hand, he returned to his seat, still mulling over where all his school supplies were strewn. Helen, upon his return, looked up at him and Tyler and asked, "So, are you two coming home on the bus, or are you staying after school?"

Jonathan replied, "Taking the bus," before sipping his soda. Tyler answered, "Matt asked a bunch of us over to his house after school. I told him I could go."

Helen nodded. "Okay then."

Tyler turned to Jonathan, adding, "He'd probably let you come, too, if you want."

Smiling only slightly, Jonathan shook his head. "That's okay. Besides, I've got an appointment with Dr. Braden, right?" he asked Helen. She nodded, adding, "At four."

Tyler shrugged. "Okay," he said, letting the issue rest, and the three of them returned to their breakfasts.

As he rode the bus to school later that day, Jonathan reflected on the normality of his daily existence, that morning included. Back in Tennessee, he had never lived life so conventionally, so routinely. But he'd picked up the habits of his new household, and it no longer seemed strange to follow to schedule of the two Bouviers. It was his life now, as well as theirs. Looking back, it seemed hard to believe that it had only been three years since he'd arrived in Gotham.

He had adjusted fairly easily to his new life, despite his "conversations" with his brother. He had adapted to his new school with ease, though he was no longer allowed to show up late or skip classes. Since he had little to do outside of classes, Jonathan ended up channeling much of his energy into schoolwork, which paid off enormously. Once he started to pay attention and do his homework, he excelled in his classes and earned several scholastic honors. His guidance counselor would tell him often that he'd have no difficulties getting into prestigious universities once he graduated, a fact that impressed his cousin and Helen took pride in.

He hadn't done nearly as well in the social arena, not that he really cared one way or the other. He simply didn't relate well to his peers, and he really wasn't one with many social graces. He preferred to be left to his own devices, and people seemed willing to leave him alone. He might have been a target for bullying were it not for the interference of Tyler, his polar opposite. Tyler was popular among his classmates, and would instruct others to leave Jonathan alone. However, that didn't stop him from trying to include his cousin among his group of friends, offering invitations to go to the movies with his buddies or to visit a friend's house. Jonathan would always decline, but he did appreciate the sincerity behind the offers.

Ever since Tyler had stumbled in on him rambling like a lunatic to himself, Jonathan had been going to therapy with Dr. Braden, Helen and Tyler's grief therapist from when Mr. Bouvier had died. She was reputed to be one of the best in the area, but Jonathan simply hated her. She was always uptight, treating Jonathan like a specimen in a Petri dish. Jonathan was in no means quiet about his distaste for her, telling her several times to her face that he could probably do her job better than she could. Every time he did so, she would purse her lips, jot some notes on a notepad, and remain silent.

Helen, despite expressing some amusement at his dislike of Dr. Braden, refused to let him switch therapists. She liked Dr. Braden, and was confident in her abilities. Besides, she would note, why switch therapists when he seemed to have gotten much better since he arrived in Gotham?

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he still had…outbursts.

Even then, after three years of grief therapy and treatment, Jonathan still liked to talk to Jackson. He no longer deluded himself into thinking that Jackson was actually there, but he would pretend that Jackson could hear him sometimes, as though they had a previously unrecognized psychic connection. He wouldn't talk out loud, or anything like that, and he only did it on rare occasions. But it was something that he didn't want to stop doing.

In a way, he had yet to let go of Jackson. He had yet to stop thinking of himself as Jackson's Little Brother, and he didn't want to think that someone he was so attached to might be gone forever. Even as Dr. Braden frequently told him that his brother was dead and buried, Jonathan would remind himself that he knew full well that his brother hadn't died. There was always the chance that Jackson would come back for him, that they'd reunite and things would go back to the way they were before…

But, deep down, he knew the reality of the situation. Jackson wasn't coming back. For all Jonathan knew, he could very well be dead. And things could never be the same as they were before. All of this made Jonathan feel an overwhelming sense of frustration, and it led to him rebelling against reality in any way he could. And the most common was talking to his brother in his head.

Then there were more violent expressions of Jonathan's emotions. Sometimes he would deliberately break things before pretending that he'd done it accidentally. He once bought a BB gun that he used to shoot at pigeons in the park, smiling at the way their insides splattered against the pavement. He'd buy dolls or stuffed animals and sneak into hidden alleyways in the area and set the toys on fire, pretending they were voodoo dolls of those who'd wronged him. But the most violent of these little escapades was what he'd done to his cousin's dog.

Tyler'd had a dog named Bailey. It was a collie that Tyler had received as a puppy on his tenth birthday. He'd loved that damn dog to pieces, spoiling it rotten with treats and toys. He never forgot to walk it or feed it, and was always more nervous about taking him to the vet than the dog was.

That dog had hated Jonathan with a vengeance not normally found in animals. Whenever it was in the same room as him, it would bark its head off or growl incessantly, refusing to let up until Jonathan left the room, even as Helen tried to shush him. The few times that Jonathan had been forced to feed it had been nightmares, with the dog barking even more persistently and nipping at Jonathan's fingers. Jonathan grew to loathe that dog, half-wishing that it would be hit by a car or get mauled by a bigger animal.

On the one-year anniversary of his parents' deaths, Jonathan had been moping around the house by himself. Tyler was out with friends, and Helen was at a session with Dr. Braden. Jonathan was feeling depressed and miserable, and he simply wanted to be left alone to his thoughts. He had wandered into the kitchen, hoping to grab a soda, but the dog was sleeping in there. Jonathan's entrance woke him, and he started to let out a series of angry snarls. Jonathan merely rolled his eyes, attempting to get past the dog so that he could reach the fridge. But the dog wouldn't move, still intent on barking incessantly.

Irritated, Jonathan had attempted to push the dog aside with one hand, but Bailey would have none of that. A second later, a sharp set of teeth embedded themselves in Jonathan's arm, and he let out a loud cry of pain. The dog quickly let go, wearing as triumphant an expression as a canine can wear.

Leaning against the wall, Jonathan hissed in pain as he tried to recover his bearings. His eyes settled on the dog as the bite marks throbbed with a dull pain. Holding his arm, Jonathan had stared at the dog with rage bubbling inside of him. He didn't move for several seconds, simply watching the animal with icy eyes. As tiny beads of blood formed in the holes left by the dog's teeth, Jonathan had slowly stood up and walked to the silverware drawer. Eyes still on the furry, satisfied animal, Jonathan opened the drawer gradually before reaching in and pulling out a large bread knife.

The dog, despite his dislike for Jonathan, seemed to be surprised when he pounced on him.

Half an hour later, Jonathan's arms were covered with even more bite marks, and he had been forced to change into a long-sleeved shirt to cover them. Bailey, however, had fared far worse. Jonathan had managed to completely sever the dog's head from the rest of its body, and its organs had nearly spilled out of a long slit in its abdomen. Even after the damn thing had died, Jonathan had continued to hack away at it, getting lost in the delusion that he was still in the woods in Tennessee, taking apart some woodland critter that he'd discovered with Jackson. When he'd finished, he'd simply sat and stared at what was left, feeling no remorse as he tried to figure out a way to cover up what he'd done.

He had put the body in a garbage bag with various other trash and had left it by the front of the house, where a garbage truck would pick it up the next morning. He had mopped up the blood and washed his hands before retiring to his room and turning on the radio, serenely listening to rock and roll as though nothing unusual had happened.

That evening, when Tyler asked him if he'd seen Bailey, Jonathan merely replied that he'd seen him running around the backyard at some point that afternoon.

When the dog didn't resurface by the next day, Tyler began to hunt for him more feverishly, asking neighbors if they'd spotted him and wandering around the area calling his name. When he returned to the house that night, Helen suggested that maybe Bailey would return on his own. Guilt welled up inside Jonathan as he watched his cousin, but he always played along, pretending that the dog had run away and was fully capable of returning.

Tyler had been despondent for weeks afterwards, always staring out the windows to see if his dog had miraculously returned. It made Jonathan's stomach twist in knots, and he felt bad for what he had done. But there was simply no way he could ever tell Tyler or Helen what he'd done to Bailey. He'd have to carry that particular secret with him to the grave.

Helen and Tyler were all he had now, after he had already lost Jackson. If he lost them, too, he didn't think he could bear it.

-----

Sunday passed without much incident in Jonathan's apartment. Jonathan spent the day running errands, while Jackson appeared to sleep all day. When Jonathan had left the apartment at around noon, Jackson had still been asleep. When Jonathan had returned later, he had been awake, but he seemed distant and non-talkative. He'd eventually gone back to sleep at around eight. Jonathan figured he must have been running around Gotham all weekend, like he always was.

Lisa had been nice to him when he'd told her he was leaving for Gotham. She'd asked if he'd enjoyed his stay, if his room had been comfortable, all the things that hotel employees had been trained to ask. But her expression had been tranquil, meditative. Judging from the way she looked at him, she probably thought that they had a connection because of their links to Jackson.

Careful, Lisa. Girls like you shouldn't associate with madmen.

In any event, their parting had been pleasant, almost like that of old friends. One wouldn't have suspected that they'd merely spent five minutes chatting one evening, but the both of them knew that it had been an important five minutes, nonetheless. They both knew of someone else in the universe that had been deeply affected by the same man. Jonathan wondered if she'd be hurt to know that he harbored that very man under his roof.

Getting back to Miami had been irritating, but it went smoothly for the most part. Through some persuasion and some under-the-table bribery (Jackson wouldn't notice a few missing hundreds, would he?), Jonathan had gotten airplane tickets for Ra's Al Ghul and company ahead of time. Their flight had gone without a hitch, and no one seemed to be suspicious regarding the large amount of Bhutanese men onboard. When they'd arrived at Gotham, Jonathan had put them up at a local hotel, where he had made reservations earlier. Again, if anyone seemed at all suspicious, they certainly didn't say anything about it.

But such was Gotham. Strange things happened with such frequency that skepticism had all but vanished.

One thing that had surprised Jonathan was Ra's Al Ghul himself. The man claiming to bear that title had seemed awkward and ill-fitted to lead so many men. Jonathan had expected a strong, charismatic man to be the one leading so many followers, but he'd been severely disappointed. The man had barely spoken a word, answering all inquiries in monosyllabic grunts and gestures. By contrast, Henri Ducard was much more decisive and leader-like, yet he was being commanded by someone with very little skill with others.

Was there something to that, perhaps?

If so, Jonathan preferred not to think about it.

As Jonathan lay down to sleep that night, he mentally pored over his schedule for the next day. No meetings with Falcone, none with Ducard, and Ra's Al Ghul had already been attended to. Except for work, he had nothing to concern himself with the following day.

He thought of Leon, feeling slightly bad that he had never called him back. But no matter. He would see him the next day. Maybe if his afternoon was free, they could go out that evening. Leon had mentioned a movie he'd wanted to see before Jonathan left for Miami. Perhaps they could check the movie times and go to a showing.

Yes, that was it. They'd go to a movie the next day. And if they so chose, they could go to dinner afterwards and return to Leon's apartment. Even as he felt himself drifting off to sleep, Jonathan smiled at the thought.

Yes. That would certainly make up for a crappy weekend.

-----

"How was your session with Dr. Braden?" Helen asked kindly as the two of them walked across the parking lot to her car. Jonathan wrinkled his nose, adjusting his glasses as he replied, "I don't like her."

Helen, smiling at Jonathan's usual complaint, teased, "Maybe you'd like her better if you did all the things she asked you to do." She winked at him to show that she was joking, but she still meant it. Jonathan bit his lip. "She only tells me to do stupid things, like keeping a journal. What's the point? I already know how I'm feeling and what I've been doing, so writing about it is pointless. All I'd be doing is leaving a paper trail."

Chuckling lightly, Aunt Helen replied as she unlocked the driver's side door of the car, "I think it has a little more to do with having an outlet."

Sliding into the passenger seat, Jonathan murmured, "Just like an electrical plug."

Helen laughed a little at that before adding, "I wouldn't be too hard on Dr. Braden if I were you. She's just trying to help."

Jonathan sighed, rolling down the window. "I know, I know."

Helen turned the key in the ignition, and the radio flickered to life. The default setting was to an oldies station, Helen's favorite music style. Staring out the window, Jonathan could hear the chorus of 'Eleanor Rigby' pouring from the speakers.

Even without looking to his left, he knew that his aunt was mouthing the words. She didn't even realize she was doing it most of the time. Whenever a song came on that she knew the words to, it would be a natural motion for her lips to form the words, even though her voice never sang along. Whenever anyone pointed it out to her, she would blink in surprise before saying, "Oh! I suppose I was, wasn't I?"

Jonathan smiled a little. He liked his aunt. It was things like the lip-synching that made her seem human to him, a warm-blooded, big-hearted human with all the quirks and characteristics a human should have. He had never seen enough of his mother to be able to see her as more than a stony face, one that would appear at random before vanishing as soon as it had appeared. She had been a phantasm, a ghost in his memories that never held any lasting importance. The only clear memory of his mother, one untainted by time or forgetfulness, was of her last night alive, when she has screamed like a banshee as bullets flew into her at rapid speed.

It was not a memory Jonathan liked to look back on.

In any event, Helen had proved to be more of a mother to him than he'd have expected when he'd first arrived at her house three years before. He'd sort of figured that she'd eventually ignore or forget him, the way his mother had. She had her own life, her own son to worry about. She probably didn't have the time or energy to deal with her emotionally unstable nephew.

But Jonathan had, to his surprise and gratitude, been proven wrong. When Tyler had come to her with reports of Jonathan having delusions of seeing his dead brother, Helen had done what a concerned mother would do for her child: she got help for him. She took him to a therapist (in this case, the infamous Dr. Braden) who had been able to treat him. With some medication and frequent grief-therapy sessions, Jonathan emerged from his deluded fog. He wasn't always happy about it, but he started to realize the fact that his brother wasn't coming back for him any time soon.

Even as her nephew was forced to take three kinds of pills for several weeks, Helen never treated him as a burden, even though he suspected that his therapy sessions didn't come cheap. Instead, she fussed over him, worrying constantly that he would slip into another delusional state. Tyler, too, had grown concerned, having seen firsthand how potent Jonathan's grief had become. It was almost as though they'd known him his whole life, the way they treated him.

Jonathan remembered sitting in the car with his aunt during his first year living with her. It was his second week of therapy, and they were traveling swiftly towards Dr. Braden's office. Hugging his knees to his chest and staring directly ahead, he had asked her coldly, "Why do you care?"

She hadn't answered right away. Maybe she didn't hear him right away, or she didn't understand what he meant. After a few seconds, all she did was ask, "What?"

"Why do you even care? Why do you keep going to all this trouble for me?"

She had paused again, probably to consider her answer. Jonathan had refused to look at her, continuing to stare at the front of the car. He had eventually heard a reply, stated calmly in her warm alto voice.

"You're my nephew. If I don't watch out for you, then who will? Besides…" And even without looking, Jonathan knew she'd said this with a knowing wink, "I think I like having you around."

He hadn't said anything in reply. He had continued to look away with a moody determination, as though this were somehow her fault. It wasn't until later that he realized what an ass he had been.

-----

When Jonathan returned to work that Monday, his bad mood had faded somewhat, but he was still a bit irritable when he arrived at Arkham Asylum. Not particularly keen on talking to his more annoying colleagues, Jonathan spent his time avoiding social contact that did not involve any of his patients. By the time his workday was due to end, he was almost in a good mood, somewhat relaxed by the hours spent with patients.

As he was about to go his office and gather his things to go home, Jonathan took out his cell phone and checked for any new messages. There weren't any, but he did notice the one that Leon had left before he traveled to Miami. Feeling slightly guilty once more, he realized that he hadn't talked to him at all during the day. Changing direction, he decided to go seek Leon out, and perhaps see if he still wanted to go see that movie.

When he reached Leon's office, he was surprised to find it almost completely devoid of papers and files, a far cry from the unholy mess that usually resided there. Even odder was the fact that all of Leon's knickknacks were gone as well: his coffee mugs, his tchotchkes, his picture frame that still held the sample photo from the photographer's shop, etc. It was as if someone had decided to erase Leon's presence from the room, leaving it sterile and cold. It confused Jonathan, and he felt a small sense of foreboding as he exited the office.

Deciding that the easiest place to find other doctors in the building was the watercooler, Jonathan headed in that direction, vaguely wondering where Leon could possibly be. Maybe he'd gotten fired? Or he quit? But even as he thought about those options, Jonathan knew that Leon would have called if that had been the case. Perhaps they'd moved his office to a different room?

As he rounded the corner leading to the watercooler, Jonathan could see Harlene Quinzel standing by herself, probably waiting for someone else to arrive so that the daily gossip could be exchanged. Upon seeing Jonathan approach her, she smiled slightly and greeted him.

"Hey there, Dr. Crane."

Skipping a returned greeting, Jonathan asked outright, "Have you seen Dr. Warren anywhere?"

She blinked, seeming confused. "What?"

"Have you seen Dr. Warren anywhere? I need to talk to him."

Looking at him suspiciously, she asked, "Are you trying to be funny?"

Jonathan shook his head fervently. "No. Have you seen him at all?"

Harlene frowned at him for a second or two before her face became uncontorted as she realized, "You were away last week, right?"

Looking at her cautiously, Jonathan nodded, slowly stating, "Yes…"

Face falling slightly, she asked, "So no one told you?"

Heart beating faster as a sense on anxiety arose, Jonathan tentatively wondered, "Told me what?"

Speaking quietly, as though they were conspirators to a crime, she responded, "Leon got into an accident about five days ago."

Jonathan stared at her, as though waiting for her to smile and reveal it to be a joke. But as he continued to look at her, no punchline came, and Jonathan suddenly began to feel very, very ill.

Taking his silence as a cue to continue, Harlene resumed telling the story. "His car flipped over a cliff or something. They said in the papers that he'd been drinking…something about his BAC being pretty high."

Heart pounding furiously in his chest, Jonathan asked, "Is he…is he alright?"

Harlene shook her head. "They said he was dead when they arrived."

Jonathan's face grew as pale as chalk when he heard her. His hands began to shake, and some small part of him wanted to say that it was impossible, that Leon couldn't die. Not then, not ever. It simply couldn't happen, and she was a filthy liar if she tried to make it seem otherwise.

Softly, Jonathan asked, "When is the funeral?"

Harlene paused to think for a second before answering. "I think it was yesterday."

Nodding slowly, Jonathan replied, "Oh." Attempting to appear unaffected, he looked at Harlene and said, "Alright, then. Have a good day, Harlene."

Looking somewhat concerned, Harlene answered, "You too, Dr. Crane."

Without another word, Jonathan stalked away from Harlene, trying to appear calm and unfeeling. But as soon as he rounded a corner, the façade evaporated. Jonathan found himself leaning against the wall, shaking as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. Pressing his palms against his eyes, Jonathan tried to absorb what Harlene had told him. Leon had been in an accident. He'd gone off of a cliff. He'd died.

But when he thought about it, his heart ached sharply, and his thoughts rebelled. He needed proof. He needed to see evidence of some kind, something that would show that this wasn't just a lie or a joke.

Standing upright, Jonathan decided to make his way to his office. Couriers always delivered newspapers to each of the doctors at Arkham, and they'd have left them for him even during his absence. Walking like a man possessed, he went into his office, slamming the door behind him and searching frantically for the newspapers. After only a few seconds, he found them neatly stacked underneath his desk.

Immediately grabbing the paper at the bottom, Jonathan found the one from five days ago as the rest flew across the floor in a flurry. Flipping through the pages, he tried to find the obituaries, but something caught his eye in the 'Local News' section.

"MAN DRIVES CAR OFF CLIFF: Police say he was driving drunk"

There was an article underneath, describing in detail how Leon had been crushed on impact before his body was incinerated by the flaming wreckage of the car. But Jonathan paid little attention to it, instead focusing on the black-and-white photo situated above it.

It was of Leon's car after the crash, surrounded by 'Caution' tape and policemen examining the scene. Leon's body had been removed, leaving only the charred remains of the car to look at. It was obvious that the car had flipped during the drop, since the vehicle lay belly-up with its tires poking up at the sky helplessly. The roof of the car was completely crumpled in, and the sides appeared to have caved from the weight of the bottom of the vehicle. It looked like a bizarre accordion, blackened by soot and by the burning it had endured. As Jonathan looked at the photo more closely, he could make out the faint scratches of 'Die Fag Die' on the collapsed doors, the message having faded from the charring brought by the fire.

Putting the paper down, Jonathan found himself shivering. Leon had been inside of that…thing. He'd been it in when it crashed, and he'd been in it as it began to burn, the flames eating away at the wreckage. Jonathan could only imagine it, the feeling of lightness as the car fell before the sharp pain of being crushed inside, right before the flames spread and the fire began to slowly and painfully eat away at him…

Feeling bile rise in his throat, Jonathan rushed to a wastebasket and began to throw up, trying to push these thoughts from his head. But as his mind conjured up images of twisted metal and agonizing infernos, he continued to puke into the trashcan.

When his stomach had settled down, Jonathan sat on the floor, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. This couldn't be happening. It was simply impossible. The car in the photo could not have held Leon inside, because Leon was alive and well somewhere. Anything else would be unthinkable.

Jonathan tried to reason with himself, trying to prove that Leon was fine somewhere. The police had made a mistake. Yes, that was it. The police had erred when they found the car. Leon must have lent it to someone else, and the fire had eaten at the face of whoever it was. So when the cops found him, they merely assumed it was Leon, even thought Leon was really okay, unaware of what had occurred as he stayed safely in his apartment. After all, the police had been wrong before. They'd said Jackson had died, but that obviously wasn't true, was it?

Even to Jonathan, the argument sounded stupid.

Getting up carefully, Jonathan leaned against the closest wall, his legs still feeling like weak rubber. Looking around, he felt a kind of pressure building up. He felt trapped and claustrophobic, the hospital serving as a standing reminder of Leon and his death.

Still shaking, Jonathan gathered his things and quickly walked out of the building. Exiting from one of the side entrances, Jonathan pressed his palm to his forehead, trying to calm himself and appear unaffected. But the more he did so, the more he felt ill and the more he envisioned the wreckage of the car, lying there like turtle on its back and its legs in the air. And Leon had been inside…

Jonathan's thoughts were interrupted when a hand stuck out in front of him, a flat palm that was at about the level of Jonathan's stomach.

"Got any change?"

Looking down and to his right, Jonathan saw a homeless man sitting against the wall of Arkham, his clothes dirty and ratty. Next to him was a small, sleeping dog, similarly filthy and decrepit. They both sat on top of a fleece blanket, which seemed fairly clean despite an abundance of dog hairs on it.

Not having received a response from Jonathan, the man asked once again, "Got any change?"

Irritated, Jonathan snapped, "No." He made a step forward when the man asked, "You don't have any change? Not even a dime or a nickel?"

Turning back to look at him, Jonathan answered, "No. Stop asking me."

"Look, I know you're lying. Your tag says you're a doctor, you must have some money on you. I haven't got anything but my dog. Can't I just have a few cents?"

Jonathan glared at the man, a cold hatred slowly building up inside of him. He didn't want to deal with this. Leon was dead, and here he was arguing pointlessly. Couldn't this man find someone else to bother?

Glancing to his left and right, Jonathan saw no one else around. It made sense: the street was really little more than an alleyway between Arkham and the next building over. Looking back at the expectant homeless man, Jonathan sighed. "Fine."

Smiling genuinely and gratefully, the man said, "Thank you, sir." Jonathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he reached into his briefcase. Smirking slightly, he pulled out a worn piece of burlap, warranting a confused look from the homeless man.

"What's that?"

Smiling cruelly, Jonathan calmly lifted the burlap over his head.

"My mask."

As the fear toxin emerged in a puff of white smoke, the man seemed confused for a few seconds. When he inhaled the toxin, however, his pupils dilated and his face grew pale as he stared up at Jonathan, whose face had melted away in favor of a more terrifying visage. Gaping at him, the man screamed, awaking his dog. Terrified, the canine began to bark loudly at Jonathan in a poor attempt to defend his master.

Jonathan remained impassive. When the homeless man continued screaming, Jonathan watched him curiously before swiftly kicking him in the face. When he did so, the man clutched his head, groaning in pain. The dog continued to bark furiously at Jonathan, its teeth bared and its body in a fighting stance.

Jonathan turned his attention to the dog, having taken care of its master. Impassively, he kicked the dog as well, causing it to whimper for a second before continuing to loudly make itself heard. Once more, Jonathan kicked it squarely in its ribs, causing it to fall over. As it lay there, Jonathan seized the opportunity to stomp on the dog's neck repeatedly with his right foot, silencing it as blood came out of its throat.

Jonathan turned back to the man clutching his face, who was staring up at Jonathan as though he had found the devil walking amongst men. Removing his mask, Jonathan looked down at him dispassionately, uncaring as to his current state of fear.

Reaching into his pocket, Jonathan pulled out two quarters. He tossed it to the ground before muttering, "Buy yourself something nice."

With that, he strode away, leaving the dead dog and the now-insane man behind as he headed towards the parking lot.