I disclaim.

The world shook when he awoke, the bed beneath him wobbling on creaking legs. He immediately closed his eyes again as blinding light hit his vision. There was a pounding headache, well past beginning, trickling down from his temple to the rest of his skull. He had yet to move his arms or legs, but felt that to do so would prove them to be in a similar state. His chest, for certain, had been injured; each inhalation was becoming more painful than the last causing him to drop his breathing to a shallower scale.

"You're awake," said a voice from above.

Bracing himself, Crane opened his eyes once more. After an effort to blink past the harsh light, he was able to take in his surroundings. The room was large and rectangular with four blank, white- perhaps grey walls. There were two sets of sturdy tables of either wood or plastic in the center and along the two longest sides of the room. The familiar glint of glass vials and flasks caught the light from atop their counters. At the end of the room stood a tall faucet that might have once been kin with a shower, but had evolved into more of a mangled cousin, complete with butchered toilet. The bed he laid in was positioned at the other end of the accommodation, set facing the makeshift lab, in full view of at least two low-grade video cameras. The thick door to the left had no handle on the side visible to him.

Out of Arkham, only to be captive once more. What new horror was this?

There was a short, thin woman standing at the foot of the bed.

"Where…" he began, but only managed a rasp.

"One moment," the woman stated before darting across the room, filling a glass she had pulled from nowhere with water from the faucet, and scurrying back to his side. She reached behind his head and supported him while proffering the cup. Regarding her with a pithy glance, Crane pulled a hand from the depths of the blankets, his left as his right felt strangely out of commission. He took the glass from her and drained it in one go, unable to help himself.

"Not so fast," she warned, but it was too late. His body was subjected to a brief coughing fit, the sharp pain in his breast increasing terribly. The woman helped him to sit up, quickly leaning him back again when the coughs had receded.

He laid still for a few moments while his breathing recovered. His right arm, he had noticed, was in a cast and his chest wound in a wrap, suggesting damage to his ribs.

"Where am I?" he tried again, this time the words forming properly.

"Hm," the woman hummed while pulling a gray lock of hair behind her ear. She seem to consider her options. "Out of the way."

He stared at her impatiently when she didn't provide more information. "Who are you?"

"You may call me Benitez. I'm a doctor. You were in an accident of sorts. What is the last thing you remember?"

He observed that she did not title herself doctor, merely asserted that she was one.

"… There was a collision with Marcovic's men. After the initial confusion, I attempted to leave the scene," he replied, the incident flashing in his memory. "When I was assaulted. I believe there were multiple strikes before I lost consciousness."

Benitez nodded her head, pulling up a waiting chair so that he did not strain his neck to look at her. "You've been in an induced sleep for over half a day. There are multiple wounds to the sternum: one broken rib, two cracked, and a pair of fractures in the forearm. Full recovery, I'd say, will take up to two months, perhaps more."

Appreciating her succinct manner, but feeling a growing urgency, he prodded her. "And the reason I am here?"

"You've been hired," said another from the doorway. They both turned to look finding another woman watching them as she swung the door shut with a quiet click. Crane glimpsed a broad set of shoulders guarding the other side before they vanished from view. His gaze flicked to the newcomer. She leant against one of the nearby tables, arms folded casually, yet defensively, as if she were uncomfortable with her environment. A prominent bruise was spreading across her jaw, indicating she'd been in a tussle within the past 24-hours. There was a hunch to her neck that conveyed her tall frame and she was of standard build, if a little more athletic. Short, wavy hair was pulled back and out of the way, dark strands still managing to fall in front of her face regardless. On the whole, unremarkable, but obscurely familiar.

"By whom?" he requested shortly.

"Who else?"

"I'm sure I have no idea." But she would have none of it and continued to stare at him.

"And what services does Marcovic wish of me?" he asked, conceding, though an answer was already forming behind his eyes.

The woman sighed. "Drugs, Dr. Crane. He was unsatisfied with your work before now, so decided to employ you in a more private sector. He feels he will be able to direct your output more… effectively from here."

"Well, I must apologize," he answered coldly. "But I'll have to decline the offer. I am quite content with my vocation currently and am in no need of another."

"I'm afraid it wasn't an offer, sir."

Crane met her eyes, angrily, and she responded in kind, her own gaze unapologetic, though understanding. It was then that he finally recognized her.

"You're the girl from the police car."

She nodded her head. "My name's Anna Avery."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise."

Pushing off from the table, Avery inclined her head to the two doctors and gave a quick series of knocks to the door. It opened and she left.

"I'd like you to rest some more, doctor. Your employment won't be starting for some time yet and you'll need all of the recovery time you can get," Benitez commanded, glancing away from the door finally as she stood up. She looked down at him with authority.

And despite having slept for most of that day as well as a consciousness of the rising amount of problems that far exceeded his quota for the year, Crane found himself closing his eyes, his breathing evening out within minutes.

Crane had looked tired and haggard. There were a number of bruises littering his chest, trailing down from the welt on his temple growing larger as they slipped beneath the wrap. Yesterday they had seemed bad; today they looked more severe, contrasting harshly with his pale skin. Before, as she had been helping Benitez tend to him, Anna had considered the extent of the injuries. She recalled belatedly that the beating at the crash had not been his first that night, realizing once again that the man before her was in fact the fearsome Scarecrow. The man that groaned in pain as Benitez wrapped the cloth about his thin torso, white and clammy and shivering all over, having thrown up not two minutes before. It looked like he had abdominal pains as well. Anna had often been assured of her own mortality, but if she'd been at all innocent of it, last night would have convinced her in no uncertain terms.

She made her way to Marcovic's office as she thought. It would be interesting working with him, if anything. The stories she had heard, even before he was known as the Scarecrow, intrigued her. He was once infamous among the Gotham elite for his intellect and his standing as Arkham's youngest director. Now, he was infamous for an entirely different reason.

"Aneta," Marcovic said with a smile. Anna entered the room, holding the door for a man on his way out. "He is awake?"

"Yes," she replied, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Just for clarification, Marcovic calls her a different name because the Russian version of Anna converts to Aneta. I've fixed up the prologue somewhat, but it's still not really... good... I am completely embarrassed by it and won't say anymore. Special, awesome, amazing shout-outs to reviewers sax92, HowlynMad, and Didi715! It's good to have a nice response, so thanks a lot.

Thanks for reading and hoped you enjoyed the new chapter!

Screwy