A dim warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham. The ground is muddy from a recent downpour of rain, a sheet of it near constant for the past four days. Now it's merely a drizzle, a gray veil hanging over the sky. It's noontime, as a minivan (a sleek black minivan, but it's still a minivan) pulls up towards this warehouse, up a hill, spraying the mud as the tires get stuck and whirl helplessly about. Eventually, every occupant has to get out and just trek the rest of the way up the hill, swearing and spitting. They slog through the mud, up the hill, to the warehouse at the top. Why a warehouse was built on top of a hill on the outskirts of Gotham City, none of them were sure of, and few cared enough to think about it.
When they walk up to the warehouse doors, the four thugs knock their boots against the wall or try to wipe them off so that they don't slip on the concrete inside; one figure waits behind them, still, silent, staring at the doors and unspeaking. A slightly shorter figure stands beside it, very close, waiting. When the thugs, shouldering or juggling their high caliber weapons with the rusted steel handles to the warehouse doors, get the doors open, the two thin figures, with a reverence and grace all their own, walk inside briskly to the icy cold atmosphere of the meeting place that has absolutely nothing to do with temperature.
"When is he arriving?" One thug asks, as he watches his boss adjust the sack over his head so that he may see out of the roughly slashed eyeholes again. He's wearing a dirty business suit, possibly in an attempt to look professional, maybe as a relic of times long past, when he was an esteemed doctor and not just another psycho in Gotham. His boss, once finished adjusting the mask, glances over at him and answers in cool tone.
"Whenever he feels like arriving. You know who we're dealing with." He makes a slight gesture; a spinning at where his temple is under the burlap material to indicate that the man they're meeting with is probably not all there. Definitely not all there, to be precise. To be completely precise and clear to the point, everyone standing in this warehouse is five hundred percent sure that there's going to be at least one incident at this 'meeting'.
"Jonny, you've learned." A sickly sweet patronizing voice comes from across the warehouse, echoing from the side of the large room sunk in pitch shadows, and the entire party of newcomers turns their heads at the same time to look at who spoke.
"Joker. Let's talk." Scarecrow invites the man just now stepping into the light of the single, low-hanging bulb; he's still as much a terror as always, with his imposing coat that makes him look around five times bigger than he really is, the constantly and grotesquely smeared makeup that make his eyes look like gaping sockets. And he's smiling. As soon as Scarecrow speaks, the Joker glances through the small group of thugs and the boss himself and stands, as he has his own thugs slink up from the shadows. They've both apparently come from opposite sides of the warehouse, which is perfect for the dramatic tension both parties are feeling at the moment. The easily recognizable figure of Harley Quinn stands behind him, toting what looks like an Uzi.
"You look a bit muddy. Rough time up?" Joker queries, and Scarecrow doesn't seem to react to the jab, though it's impossible to tell with the mask over his head obscuring his expressions or the voice changer turning his voice into a growling, garbled mess.
"I hope we didn't keep you waiting." He says flippantly, though it's obvious from the garbled tone that he doesn't really give a damn if he kept Joker waiting or not. Joker seems to either clear his throat or giggle; it's too hard to tell which.
"Not at all. I though we kept you waiting, Jonny Crow."
Though one can't see it, Crane narrows his eyes from behind his mask. He prefers Scarecrow, he can stand Crane, he dislikes Jonathan, but goddammit does he hate being called Jonny. Saying so out loud, however, would be an ill choice at this point in negotiations. Maybe later on.
"In any case," Scarecrow brushes the disgusting pet name off as he gestures to the person sticking close to his left, and they seem to perk up slightly, "Let's talk business."
"Talking dirty? I didn't know you were that kind of man, Crane." The Joker taunts, and he's disappointed when Crane doesn't react the way he'd have liked. You know; at all.
"Joker," Scarecrow begins, and he's set on trading a few barbs with Joker until they've both loosened up enough to get serious, "I wouldn't dare. You only talk dirty to the Batman." He says this very flippantly, though the mask makes this hard to see. Joker doesn't laugh, only smiles humorlessly.
"And you talk dirty to that little voice in your head, don't you?" He shoots back, and Scarecrow glances aside at the person close to him.
"Hardly. I thought you'd like to see this little number again; she's done herself up prettier than you last saw her. Angelface, why don't you let him see your pretty face?" Scarecrow almost croons, though that's difficult with the voice changer. He knows how to manipulate her mangled sense of vanity, and he knows that she's aware of this, and he also knows that it's her that decides when he manipulates her or not. She steps forward, daintily, and when she pulls the plastic bag off of her head (the woman has been trying out so many different 'looks' that hide her face, but none so far have suited her fancy), she meets eyes with the Joker and flashes a brilliant smile.
"Hey there, Joker," She says, and it's in a very pleased sing-song voice, though the light in her tune doesn't reach her eyes. She sees that his eyes widen a very small fraction, and he smiles at her. It's not warm, not in the slightest, but things in her stomach that haven't quite decayed yet flutter rotten butterfly wings at seeing him happy to see her. "Feeling happy lately?"
Joker, meanwhile, is examining Schwarzwald's face. Well, she used to be Schwarzwald; now she's Angel something. Angelface, that was it. Vain little creature. He remembers how long her scars were though, he always remembers things like that to the second because it's nice to relive those memories now and then, and they're not the same length. Something made them longer. They're far past where his end, reaching out towards her jaw hinges. He sees little silver rings through her mouth, about three on each side, holding the corners of her lengthened mouth shut. Her eyes are bright, too bright to be sane. She's gone mad and he knows it. And not the mad she thought she was. There's a large difference between helping a psychopath and actually being one, and he can tell that what was once Michelle is now a few shades less than sane.
He loves it. Such a joy in making a normal, miserable citizen of Gotham into…well, this. You can almost see the joy in her eyes. Not really, but if you close your eyes you can see it very well.
"Schwarzy," He says her old name, and she seems to wrinkle her nose, "You look, ah, well."
"Angelface, not Schwarzy or Schwarzwald. And I'm doing wonderful!" She sings the last word, and turns around to prance towards Scarecrow. Joker notices that her clothes are the tattered, stained remains of a white dress. She wants to be an angel so bad, he can almost taste it himself. It's sickeningly sweet. Her hair is blond and her eyes are blue, her skin is pale and her scars are horrific. She's a beautiful, insane little thing. She's like his Harley, sort of. Harley, though, is more controlled, more attached to reality.
Harley Quinn is just a love freak. Angelface is a dame in a technicolor land of crushed dreams and tattered sanity.
He watches her prance towards Scarecrow and hover at his left, but not touching him. Of course she won't touch Jonny Crane; the man has always had issues with being touched without his express permission. The Joker's seen it firsthand.
"Ah, I see. Looks like Crow here's the one you ran off to."
"I just can't turn away a soul in need," Scarecrow states, though it's obvious that he's being sarcastic, "Breaks my heart." He taps the area over his heart once, twice, before becoming serious again. "And so, you can probably guess that we want to strike up a partnership. You have the manpower. I have this," He holds up a metal canister that reflects the low lamplight, and Joker cocks his head slightly.
"Still on with the laughing gas of yours, Jonny? It didn't work last time; what's so different about it this time? I really hate investing time and money into projects that are gonna fall flat on their faces."
"Oh," Crane starts, giving a dramatic sweep of his arm in a horizontal gesture, as if he were gesturing to a grand crowd, his hand open as he does, "But this is no ordinary mix. Let me show you." He turns suddenly, grasps Angelface by the back of her neck, and drags her forward while spraying her in the face. She coughs, wheezes, and when she looks up at the mask again, Joker watches her eyes go wide and her mouth open in the beginnings of a scream. When the noise escapes her, strangled, terrified beyond imagination, Scarecrow throws her away from himself, and she collides with the floor and scrambles away.
"This mix was created with Angel here, the only human on earth with a natural immunity. I just created a toxin that bypassed that immunity; no matter if they have an antidote, or if they attempt to make one, the fact that I took the original chemical and changed it to be stronger than a natural immunity means…well," Scarecrow gives a slight gesture, a small jerk of the head, towards Angelface, who is now in the process of screaming blue murder with her hands over her eyes, "it's a lot stronger than the old mix. You don't just see your worst fear anymore; you see an amalgamation of all of them. Angel, here, is currently in a wonderful land of rotten milk and soured honey. Tell me what you see, Angel." He says the last line as a calm demand, and she begins to choke out a response. Well-trained.
"Corpses…spiders, worms, pitch black!!" She shrieks, beginning to sob.
"She's been the test subject for all the new mixes, until I found the one that worked most potently. She makes a great lab rat." Scarecrow says, almost uninterestedly, before tossing a secondary canister to a thug. "Gas her." He orders, and the thug pins her down and sprays her with the antidote. "I made an antidote as well, for you and your men. Figured that you wouldn't be so keen on experiencing the effects yourself."
Joker watches Angelface calm down, slowly; she's foaming at the mouth slightly, breathing like she's run a marathon, crying, drooling; looks like hell. It looks like a pretty potent poison. "So, Crane," He begins, looking from the woman recovering on the floor to the sack-headed mad scientist beside her, "You want to cut a deal? Poison our fair little city? I assume that during this little rendezvous, you're going to expect me to run off and raise chaos?"
"Correct. By the time you find him, if my plan goes right, the Batman is going to be suffering his worst fears and some very lucid hallucinations. It'll be some of the most fun you've ever had." Scarecrow urges, as Angelface crawls towards him and grasps the leg of his pants. He kicks her off, and continues watching Joker, who seems to be thinking. After a minute or two of pure, deafening silence, he matches eyes with Scarecrow again.
"Fine. A little team-up could do a man good; refresh his ideas. And you want?"
"Money, of course; we'll be needing it for the distribution of the chemical." Scarecrow rubs his thumb against the side of his forefinger, as if just saying 'we need money' isn't enough to show what he means. "And you can have the Batman when it's all over."
Joker thinks again, now smiling slightly. Eerily. "You don't just want money, do you? It's in your eyes, Crane."
Scarecrow hesitates a moment, before answering as he turns back to the warehouse door, tugging on one of Angelface's tangled locks gently as he passes, a small sign for her to follow. "I want Arkham back."
"Done. Keep in touch, Jonny. And Angel," Joker says her name and she turns around, standing and preparing to follow Crane outside again, and if she didn't have the scars the expression she's wearing, of curiosity and something close to naivety, would make her look like an innocent. She stares at the Joker as he smiles at her, and it's a horrifying smile that would rattle any sane person to their very core. "Don't forget to smile, dear."
He sees her eyes go wide, sees her relive her terror, and laughs in a sharp, barking manner when she whirls around and hurries to make it to Crane's side. She unconsciously grasps at his arm for comfort and he shoves her away, reminding her not to touch, and she instead stays at his left, silent as the grave. Joker turns to his armed men, bodyguards to match Crane's bodyguards, and Harley, signaling to them that it's time to go. The two parties are a team now, but they're anything but friendly.
They depart, Joker in his van and Scarecrow by trudging down the muddy hill to his minivan. Gotham doesn't know it, but soon, the fairest city is about to suffer another cataclysmic assault.