The moments after seemed to unfold in surreal clarity before Scarecrow as the monorail structure broke loose after some mysterious explosion blew it apart from the main railway. As the train barreled to its fiery destruction, Scarecrow and Gunpowder froze as the huge mass of steel toppled towards them. Emily gaped, unable to scream, every muscle tense, but paralyzed in fear. Normally Scarecrow would rejoice at such a reaction from Emily, but he was unable to savor it. Suddenly anger flooded Scarecrow. Everything had gone wrong this night in what would seem his glorious night, the first night of his Reign of Terror. Almost viciously he jabbed his heels into Gunpowder's sides and the stallion suddenly was awakened from his moment of fixed terror.

Frantically he bolted, running almost blindly while Scarecrow guided him not for the open street, but into a narrow alley way. They could not outrun the towering structure that was at least a mile high, but they might be able to reach safety. The steel began to bend and groan as it tumbled closer to the earth. Gunpowder's hooves hammered into the asphalt as the shadow of the tower loomed over them, loomed just over their heads. Just seconds before the entire structure was about to crush them, they reached the alley and they were sheltered by the concrete wall. Thousands of pounds of steel slammed and twisted into the bricks, crushing and shattering the outside of the wall.

Gunpowder briefly reared in fright, pawing the air. A small chunk of concrete, loosened by the collision, flew toward them and glanced off Emily's brow. For a moment she cried in pain, then went limp. Scarecrow looked to her and saw that she was unconscious and blood trickled from the small gash.

"Yes, nothing is working out the way I had planned," grumbled Scarecrow. "No matter. I will take her where I had planned – back to my place. Tonight she shall be mine, mine forever."

Scarecrow tightened his grip on the unconscious Emily, her long, brunette hair hanging limply over her face.

You are so sure of that.

It was Jonathan's voice. Scarecrow had been so sure he had been silenced forever when he had imprisoned Jonathan in his psyche.

Ah, Jonathan. So you have come to see what I will do with your girlfriend. Now you will see she is mine. You will see I will have greater success with her than you ever will have!

I think not, Scarecrow. You always were mistaken on several things, finesse was one thing, subtlety was another and love you never understood.

And you now do, Jonathan? Don't make me laugh! All these years as a lonely bachelor and you see Emily and now you're an expert on love! Dr. Jonathan Crane – the Love Doctor Is In!

I might not be that, thought Jonathan. But I know much more than you ever will. And I also know one other thing.

And what else might that be, Scarecrow thought.

Jonathan went silent, but suddenly Scarecrow felt a piercing sharp syringe needle jabbing into his arm and a cool serum filling his vein. Scarecrow watched in horror and realized it was his own left arm giving himself an injection.

Dammit Jonathan! What are you doing to me!

Just doing what needs to be done to get back in control, ScareCrow.

The serum was an antidote to the concentrated Fear Toxin Crane had been dosed with by Batman several hours before, but it also contained a potent cocktail of medications used to combat schizophrenia. Crane had worried about being dosed accidentally with the toxin – it was a common enough risk – and with the growing animosity of Scarecrow, he believed he had to be ready.

But the sequence of events had proved to be more detrimental than Crane had imagined, notably Sgt. Gordan keeping him in that straightjacket while the toxin did its full damage on his psyche. He was unable to reach the antidote while all that time it was in his pocket. And by the time he was free, Scarecrow had assumed full control of his mind and he was unable to dose himself until he was distracted enough – distracted with the collapsing monorail and Emily.

Now would be the tough part, usurping Scarecrow from control and pushing him back into his subconscious. Jonathan clawed his way from the deep, dark imprison in the depths of his mind, moving closer up to consciousness, up to Scarecrow.

You think you have won! But you are wrong! You are a fool, Jonathan, as you always have been! You are weak!

The toxin antidote began to work, the hallucinations began to lessen, some of the madness subsiding. The tenuous grip of Scarecrow became shakier. Jonathan was growing closer to Scarecrow in his mind.

Jonathan you idiot! How can you give this up! Emily is ours! Yours and mine!

Anger flared within Jonathan.

Damn you, Scarecrow! Emily is not ours for the taking! She is not some prize we have won. If she chooses to love me, that is her choice.

Again, weakness, hissed Scarecrow.

Jonathan had reached Scarecrow in his mind.

Your weakness is your blind obsession with power, ScareCrow!

Jonathan grasped Scarecrow in the seat of his consciousness. He could feel Scarecrow's shoulder, rustling from the dry stale straw, nearly biting the palm of his hand. Scarecrow turned his face toward him and he saw the mask staring back it him, a face with no eyes, empty and hollow inside, waiting to be filled, waiting to be filled by him.

You're making a mistake, whispered Scarecrow.

No, my mistake was you, Jonathan said.

Then Jonathan grabbed the man of straw, madness and empty fear and threw him deep into the shadows of this mind, to bury him, with hopes Scarecrow would never emerge ever again.

Sunlight began to creep into the slate colored sky as Jonathan rode down the lonely street. Gunpowder's hooves echoed in the silence and the haze of the toxin had long been left behind along with the terror. The fear and the nightmare of the night seemed to vanish like the bad dream it once was and Jonathan also realized that perhaps life as he once knew it was coming to an end as well.

No, don't think about that. Just think of what needs to be done now. Get Emily safely home.

She still was unconscious and his right arm was growing tired from holding her as he rode down the street, feeling strangely like he still must be suffering from the toxin's effects or some hallucination. This was all too bizarre, even for Dr. Jonathan Crane. As much as he hated it, he still wore the loathed mask, partly out of practicality – in case Emily awoke and saw him still riding the horse, so she wouldn't know indeed he was Scarecrow –partly because the dried blood from the taser gun wound had congealed to the burlap and tearing the fabric from it now would cause it to bleed afresh. No, he'd have to continue to ride under the guise of Scarecrow for now as much as he hated it and prayed no terrified resident would see some lunatic riding a huge black horse with a captive girl down their street.

But Gotham City still was reeling from its Night of Terror and either was too busy from undoing the chaos or – for the parts of the city mercifully spared the toxin – it blissfully slept. Jonathan turned the corner and saw the faintly dimmed street lights through the ragged eye holes of the mask and faintly could hear the first songs of morning birds.

You're almost home, Emily.

Finally Gunpowder's weary hooves clopped to a halt in front of the apartment and Jonathan dismounted, then carefully slid Emily out of the saddle and into his arms. She still hung limp and unconsciousness, but Jonathan saw at least her head wound had stopped bleeding – always a good sign. He began to turn toward the apartment, carrying her, when Gunpowder shook his mane and whinnied.

Jonathan gazed coldly at the horse.

"Damn it, what do you want? You're free, go home! Go!"

Gunpowder stomped his right hoof on the pavement, took a step or two and then stopped again.

"Damn it! I am not your owner. Who owns you? The Gotham City P.D.? And now I'll be charged with theft of horse of all absurd things. Leave before they find you in my possession!"

But Gunpowder reared dramatically, thrashing his forelegs in the air.

Of all the idiotic things you had to steal, why a horse, Scarecrow? Why not a car? It's far more practical, Crane thought bitterly.

Gently he laid Emily on the lawn in front of the apartment while he approached Gunpowder, who suddenly became docile as he took the rein.

You are a magnificent animal, I'll grant you that. Far more beautiful than any silly colt I had to ride in those polo matches. But such is life when you're a young doctor scraping and performing like a court fool for funds at Arkham.

"Come, Gunpowder."

Crane didn't know what he'd do with the horse except he certainly didn't have the option of leaving him by a hitching post in the street. He took him several paces behind the apartments where there was a small wooded area and a pond. Gently he removed the bit from Gunpowder's mouth and secured the reins to a tree bough at the water's edge. Crane lightly patted the stallion's neck.

"You saved my life several times this night when I couldn't do anything for myself. Thank you, Gunpowder," Crane said. "Now get some rest."

Gunpowder gazed at him with his black eyes and briefly licked him with his pink tongue, like an oversized dog, then walked to the pond's edge for a drink. Several ducks saw the unusual intruder along the bank and loudly squawked at the stallion, flapping their wings. Gunpowder, unperturbed by the avian ruckus, just continued to drink and then snatched up a mouthful of grass. As far as he was concerned, he was the new king of the pond now.

The whole scene struck Dr. Jonathan Crane as surreal and vaguely absurd. He was standing in the open doorway fumbling with the jingling keys in his right hand while trying to balance the unconscious Emily in his arms. What made matters worse was his limited vision from the Scarecrow mask as he picked one key after another and jammed it into the lock.

C'mon! Let this be the one and let me not drop these damn keys!

At last when he turned the silver key and the lock clicked open, partly in frustration and gratitude, he kicked the door open. Dr. Jonathan Crane had some vague daydreams of this moment when he kissed Emily. He imagined a romantic dinner, wine, candlelight, a slow evening of seduction – but not Emily knocked unconscious by a stray piece of concrete and him carrying her in wearing the Scarecrow mask.

Ah, what a fine couple we make!

The lights were off in her apartment and he began walking tentatively in, wondering where the light switch was amid the shadows of furniture. He heard a crunch underfoot and for a moment feared he had damaged something valuable, then gazed down and saw it was just a newspaper. As his eyes adjusted to the low light he saw that Emily's apartment was somewhat in disarray compared to Jonathan's usually immaculate arrangement – pillows were scattered on the sofa, her morning cup of coffee was left empty on the coffee table and an open magazine was on the chair. A kicked off tan high heeled shoe was just a few feet away from Jonathan in the corridor and posed a possible trip hazard.

Emily Andrews, I hate to say this, but you're a bit of a slob.

Her bedroom wasn't much better. He gently laid her down on the unmade bed and noted the book sitting open, spine upward, Darkness and Light: Journey Into the Mind, and the glass of water on the nightstand. Next to the water was some over-the-counter medication Doze-Now.

So you're having problems going to sleep? I would think someone in your profession would be exhausted by midday.

Jonathan looked at her a moment. She looked so peaceful; her hair flowing over the pillow, her left hand resting on her stomach as it gently rose and fell with each breath. He lightly sighed and did what he had been longing to do since he had regained control of his body – he went into the washroom.

He flicked on the lights and noticed Emily's washroom was much smaller than Jonathan's and like the rest of the apartment, less tidy. But it also was filled with all sorts of feminine touches, silk white roses on the sink, pink wallpaper and a rubber ducky sitting innocently on the cream porcelain bathtub.

A rubber ducky? Well wonders never cease with you, Emily.

Then he gazed at the mirror and at the masked figure staring back at him – at Scarecrow. Once he saw that image as an image of power and fear, now he had learned to despise it and wished to bury it forever. Tentatively he reached for the corners of the mask and gingerly lifted it upward, peeling it slowly off his damp skin. When he reached the taser wound, he paused a moment. He opened the mirror and removed the antiseptic, gauze and medical tape.

Okay, Jonathan. This is going to hurt. You're just going to have to deal with it. You're no stranger to pain, after all. Hopefully it will not bleed too deeply.

Jonathan winced as he tore the mask off his face.

Daylight crept through the curtains of Emily's bedroom when Jonathan returned. The bandage was secure on his cheek, though it still throbbed in pain. He sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed at Emily as she slept in peace.

Now I'm afraid Emily, it's your turn.

As gently as he could he took the bottle of antiseptic and cotton, and gently began to clean her forehead wound. Emily grimaced in her unconsciousness, moaning slightly pain.

Yes, I know it hurts, but I can't risk it getting infected, and it will, especially if any of the concrete debris remains in the wound.

Almost mercifully she remained unconscious as he worked on the wound, cleaning it and at last applying the bandage. Then, there was one more task he had to complete and he hoped he had the means in which to accomplish it. He opened his suit jacket and as he did so a gleam of metal flashed before him; he was wearing the Fear Toxin belt and a cold shiver ran through him. Jonathan closed his eyes a moment, then dug through his breast pocket and removed several plastic vials of solution; he was looking for the original Fear Toxin antidote that didn't include the schizophrenia medication.

Solution 651B, no. And another B and another. Ah, Solution 651A. I just hope it works on you, Emily.

He drew the solution into a clean hypodermic needle, sterilized her arm and gave her the injection. With the pain of the needle, Emily's eyes fluttered open and she gave a faint cry.

"I'm sorry, Emily."

She turned her eyes to Jonathan and saw him sitting on the bed, the sunlight cutting across him on a diagonal from the slightly parted curtains. Her lips parted and she smiled.

"Hello, Jonathan," she whispered. "I didn't expect to see you again."

Jonathan's clear blue eyes widened as he gazed at her, his face an unreadable mask, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I dead, Jonathan?"

Jonathan gaped slightly, then turned his eyes down and removed the needle, quickly sterilizing her arm and putting on a bandage.

"No, Emily, you aren't dead. Why would you think that?"

"Someone, a madman, told me you were killed – murdered – and I thought I'd never see you again – at least not in this life." A faraway gaze passed over Emily's eyes. "I wonder if I'm dreaming and I'll wake up and find you're gone."

Jonathan tenderly stroked Emily's hair, feeling the warmth and softness of it drifting through his fingers. As she felt the solidity of his fingers her deep warm brown eyes lit up and she smiled.

"Oh, Jonathan, you're not a ghost!"

Before he could answer she reached up toward him and he felt those soft, delicate hands upon his temples and those warm, delicious lips upon his own. He lost himself in her embrace, in her kiss as his heart thundered and his breath quickened with hers.