Chapter 3: A New Look

The weeks flew by much faster than he'd anticipated. Although he'd looked into moving to another hideout, both of his usual locations were compromised. In fact, one of them had two cop cars parked outside of it, and a stream of police tape segmenting it from public view. Luckily that particular location wasn't one he regularly used for fear toxin supply storage. At least he didn't think so. Sadly, the second location was in even worse disrepair than his current home. The windows had been boarded up and the second story floor had completely collapsed onto the first. Considering the odds, he was quite fortunate to have his little nook of Gotham, even if it was rather disgustingly unhealthy. He would have to just take precautions against the mold and make the best of it.

He was slowly acquiring supplies for a new batch of his toxin, though the process was rather tedious since he was determined not to go out at night. The suppliers were more than happy to meet with him during the day, but of course their prices were higher considering Crane's costume wasn't quite as disturbing as it was in the dead of night. As such, he had to trim down his food consumption to the bare minimum – though to be honest he didn't eat much anyway. Finally after three weeks of toiling he had finally gathered enough chemicals and tools to begin his research once more. It was almost as if the attack in the hay field had never happened.

In fact, he hadn't put much thought into that nighttime assault lately. He'd been so wrapped up in the day-to-day requirements of being a malicious chemical genius. But one Saturday evening, just after he'd finished setting up his lab the way he wanted and had popped a frozen pizza into the microwave, he'd gone to his room to change clothes and noticed the strangest thing in the mirror. He paused, fumbling to put his glasses on to get a better look, and stared hard at his reflection. His arms looked firm and well-built, the muscles larger than he ever recalled having. He traced the definition with his other hand, noticing the same odd occurrence on his other arm. And his stomach! He shuddered with nervous laughter at the stern six-pack – a completely different appearance from the scrawny hollow concave he was used to seeing. It was as though he'd been doing straight crunches and push-ups every day for weeks instead of gathering chemicals. He stretched his shoulder, noticing that the pain he'd once had there from the attack was completely gone.

He went over to the bed, pulling his trousers off as he went so that he was stripped down to his briefs. He flung his toned leg up so he could examine the bite mark again. The skin still looked perfect, even though the stitches were still neatly intact. Crane had been too suspicious to remove them immediately despite how healthy it appeared that day after the assault, but now he was fairly confident he could take care of them without causing too much damage: with his surprising new physique, why shouldn't he try it? Fetching a small pair of scissors and tweezers, he returned to the bedroom and started snipping the threads, piece by piece. And as he removed them, there was minor pain but nothing terrible. With each strand he removed, a tiny hole was left behind. But as he moved on to the second then third stands, he paused. The first hole he'd created closed up so quickly it looked like it'd never existed.

As he worked, the second and finally his most recent stitch sealed shut. His hands started to tremble, and he rushed through the last few only to stare intently as the last of the wounds disappeared, leaving only his clear skin behind. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to wrap his logical mind around this medical marvel. Curiously, he took the small scissors and cut into the back of his hand, wincing slightly at the pain but keeping his eyes on the wound. The crimson blood oozed out obediently, but after a couple of minutes the wound closed up without so much as a scar.

"This is impossible," he whispered, his eyes wide. But he couldn't deny the evidence in front of him. So now he was left with two options: did he move on with his research as though this hadn't happened, or did he change the focus of his interests onto this new variable?

He wiped the blood from the back of his hand, his mind reeling with the possibilities of what this could mean. Batman would find it much more difficult to beat him to a pulp with such speedy regeneration. But how long would this last? Was it perhaps only temporary?

He went back into the kitchen and pulled his pizza out of the microwave, turned the radio on, and sat down to enjoy his meal. The DJ on the show was commenting on the news reports.

"…much happening these last few nights. Those animal attacks must have really scared off a few of those criminal kooks, eh Susan?"

"John, I don't know if that's – "

"I'm just saying, they start having these bodies show up and the city goes quiet. If it's a hoax, then it's one damn clever one. Let's take our first caller."

Crane smiled to himself as he dived into the fourth slice, surprised by his own appetite. John must be new to town. You simply didn't get on the airwaves and start talking about how quiet the city was, not in Gotham. It was like an outright challenge. And he felt more than ready to take on the Bat once more.