Many people throughout history have theorized that there's something in Gotham's water that triggers a certain thought: Costumes. What a good idea. How else could anyone explain the horde of costumed lunatics on both sides of the law wreaking havoc across the city? The Unabomber didn't need a costume. Charles Manson didn't need a costume. Ed Gein didn't need a costume (though he had several in storage for special occasions). But it seemed that the very instant anything psychologically noteworthy happened among the citizens of Gotham, they were in a costume faster than you could say 'knife'. (Or 'put down the knife', or 'please don't stab me in the face', or even 'AAAAIEEEE!')

So the citizens of Gotham had evolved a standoffish relationship with people in costumes. The concept of survival of the fittest had weeded out those elements of society that teased people in silly clothes, since it's difficult to reproduce when said people in silly clothes have made you very dead in a variety of painful ways.

This meant that, unlike certain other cities across America, Gotham City was a fairly safe place on Halloween night. Not that it was safe enough for, say, kids to go trick-or-treating alone, but it was safe enough for Jonathan Crane in his silly suit to get to the party without being mugged. He was there now, lurking in the mouth of an alley, gathering his courage for the monumental task ahead.

Professor Crane was not a stupid man. He knew that of all the events in Gotham, a Halloween party that claimed to hold no fear was possibly the most stereotypical target he would ever hit. He knew that this party would be watched by the cops and the vigilantes. (However, he also knew that a handful of other rogues were out making trouble tonight, so at least not all of the vigilantes would be focused on him.) And most of all, he knew they'd be watching for a lanky, tall man in a scarecrow costume lurking around the edges of things and hiding in the shadows.

Which is what he was doing now, of course, but that was different. Sort of. He flicked a bit of dirt from his shoulder and tightened his belt. His camper's backpack was snugged close around his shoulders, with the waist strap clipped firmly around himself so that it wouldn't shift about.

This was it.

With a totally uncharacteristic squeal of laughter, he swung himself into a cartwheel and whirled toward the door. The guards at the door (a giant sphere of a man dressed in a furry plaid suit with a bushy beard and wig and a tough-looking lady in a frizzy wig and black robes) gave him a suspicious glance as he skidded to a halt at their feet, miming great surprise and shock that they were there. They were obviously cops. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out two of his party favors, presenting them in his gloved hands as a knight presents his sword to his king.

The man grabbed him by the arm and yanked his sleeve up, acting surprised when he saw nothing but skin. He rubbed it suspiciously, examined his fingertips, and then waved Crane through. "I thought he mighta been the clown!" he protested to his partner, who was shooting him a dirty look. They'd thought he was the Joker! Clearly, the disguise was working.

Crane exaggeratedly slumped his shoulders and kicked a toe in the dirt, still offering the favors. The woman took one and elbowed the man hard in the gut. He took one too. They each clipped the little pumpkin necklaces (filled with compressed fear gas, naturally) around their necks. The Scarecrow drew himself upright and danced his way into the mass of people inside.

He'd hide in plain sight, in the middle of the crowd, acting like a clown. It would be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He did not clown about. He rarely even smiled, if it came to that. But didn't that make this the perfect cover? Who would suspect grim little Jonathan Crane to be inhabiting the form of what appeared to be a living cartoon?

A living silent cartoon. It was bad enough that he had to play the fool. He refused to try and make jokes along with it. (Not that he would have been able to, even if he'd tried. Everywhere he looked at this party, he saw something that made him angry. In the mood he was in, even the knowledge that other people existed was enough to piss him off.)

He slipped the backpack off and let it dangle from one hand, passing out pumpkin necklaces as quickly as he could. He didn't want to have to spend any more time in this ridiculous costume than he had to. He ached to sneak up behind people and surprise them, or lean close and whisper intimations of happy doom into their ears. But he couldn't, or he'd blow his cover.

Instead, he threw himself grimly into the art of the mime. He tucked necklaces into open hands, clipped them quietly around unsuspecting necks, and wrapped them around outstretched wrists. In the rare case where someone didn't want a necklace, he twisted his body about until it almost screamed with pitiful, pleading despair and followed them around until they took one. (He was very, very familiar with that pose, though he normally saw it on other people nowadays.) And when it was time to confront the dancers near the speakers, he took an almost savage pleasure in mocking them, flailing his limbs in a grotesque parody of their dancing (which was, admittably, pretty grotesque without his interference).

Finally, exhausted, he leaned casually on the wall by the refreshment table. The punch bowl glittered gleamingly at him, inviting him to take a deep drink and quench his thirst. He glared at it. He wasn't stupid enough to drink anything at a party like this, let alone try and drink through two masks.

"Great costume!" Since he'd been hearing that remark all night, mostly directed at people who had nothing better to do with their time than painstakingly copy every exact detail of costumes from various movies, he ignored it. But then someone laid a hand on his shoulder and spun him around.

"Where'd you get it?" the girl asked him, looking him over with impressed eyes.

He blinked. She liked this stupid set of rags?...oh, that explained it. She was dressed in a blue gingham dress with a basket over one arm that contained a small stuffed dog. There were odd touches to her Dorothy costume, though, that didn't fit with what he knew from the movie (and really, he didn't know much, because he'd never seen it). She had an odd cap on over her long red pigtails, and silver shoes instead of red sparkly ones...

He realized she was waiting for an answer and tapped a forefinger on his mask's mouth, miming silence. Can't talk, go away, you wretched child!

"But the Scarecrow talks!" she said, crossing her arms defiantly. She had to be at least eighteen, far too old to adopt that petulant tone. "He says all sorts of stuff! He's the King of Oz!"

Well, that was unexpected. He'd never been the king of anything, as far as he knew, except perhaps the King of Bruises. He tapped his lips again insistently, glaring at her through the mask's tiny eyeholes.

Suddenly, the girl looked embarrassed. "You mean you can't talk...at all?" she said in a small voice.

Salvation! He nodded once, sharply, and made as if to move away.

"No, wait!" she said, grabbing him by his sleeve again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You can hang out with us tonight, it'll be great!" With that, she dragged him across the floor to her friends.

The Scarecrow tended to be antisocial in the same way that mountains tended to be large. Oh, sure, he'd associate with the other rogues when he had to, or when he wanted a game of chess inside Arkham, but that was just about all the social contact he wanted. He certainly didn't have any intention of being friendly with anyone here, and yet this girl was babbling pleasantries at him while yanking him along by the arm.

He was seething inside. He had work to do, and he had to go along with this girl and act happy because now half the crowd had seen him acting like a harmless, friendly idiot. If he dropped the act and tried to get away from her, they'd all know something was up. He didn't have time for this. He still had half a bag of necklaces to hand out!

Speaking of which...When the girl finally dropped his arm to introduce him to her friends, he dug in his bag and extracted more necklaces. 'Dorothy' and her two friends (girls, from what he could tell - only girls would make that ear-piercing shriek when they saw something they liked) squealed and accepted them, putting them on and adjusting them so they hung just so over their costumes.

"Isn't he great?" Dorothy was gushing to her friends, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion. She turned to him expectantly. "Do that thing you did earlier!"

He stared blankly at her.

"That thing!" she said impatiently.

He shrugged. He did lots of things...breathing, walking, gassing girls with big mouths...

She smacked him playfully on the arm, making him instinctively flinch backward. She didn't notice. "When you were dancing! That thing on the floor!"

Oh, that. Well, he wasn't sure he could reproduce that particular move, mostly because he hadn't meant to do it. He'd gotten a little overconfident during the dance and his feet had gone out from under him. Panicked, he'd done an awkward twist-flip in midair to avoid landing on his left hip, where the remote control rested that would pop all the pumpkins.

Once was enough. He shook his head no.

"Oh, c'mon! It was fantastic!"

He waved an expressive hand at the cluster of people around him and mimed smacking them in the head as he danced.

"Spoilsport," she said, somehow managing to be cheerful and sullen at the same time. "So what do you want to do?"

He didn't want to do anything with them. But now that he thought about it...he lifted a necklace from his pack and presented it to a passerby. Turning back to the trio, he pointed first at the sack of necklaces, then at them.

"Sure, we'll help!" the Tin Man offered. They loaded up Dorothy's basket with the necklaces and scampered off into the crowd, leaving him alone at last. He picked up his bag (now much lighter) and turned to hand the man behind him a necklace.

Cape. A long, black cape wrapped around a tall figure filled his vision. Narrowed eyes glared down at him from below pointy ears. The bag in his suddenly limp fingers fell to the floor, showering pumpkins everywhere.

"Oh, dude, I'm sorry!" Batman said in a nasal voice. "I just wanted one of those for my girlfriend!"

Ah. Not Batman, then. Crane looked him over again, just to be sure. No, this weedy specimen was definitely not Batman. Batman didn't wear tennis shoes, or satin opera gloves, and he certainly didn't wear capes that looked like bedsheets covered in dryer lint. He swore to himself as he knelt to pick up the necklaces. Who had let someone dressed like Batman in here? Wasn't the rule no scary costumes? Whoever had decided that Batman wasn't scary was in serious need of a late-night confrontation with him, alone in an alley, shoulderblades digging into a brick wall as the Dark Knight aimed a fist directly at their face...

"We're back!" O joyous day. He stuffed the last of the necklaces into the bag and rose to his feet. 'Batman' had disappeared, clutching a handful of necklaces and calling for his girlfriend. The girls were beaming at him as Dorothy triumphantly displayed her basket, once more empty of everything but little toy Toto.

"Come on, Scarecrow!" she said, grabbing his arm yet again and dragging him across the room. "Picture time!" They were clearly headed for a cameraman's backdrop located just across from the dance floor.

He held up a finger and lifted one more necklace from the bag. With a flourish, he tied it carefully around the stuffed dog's neck. The girls giggled. With luck, Dorothy would have that basket nice and close to her when he popped the pumpkins, close enough so that the second necklace would ensure her a good twelve hours of abject fear.

With that pleasant mental image screaming in his head, he allowed himself to be towed across the floor.