Disc: don't own the characters or cities

Jonathan Crane parked his small beat-up car in an alley and walked cautiously down the dirty street, using the shadows to his advantage. To the average person, walking on foot in the Narrows was a foolhardy thing to do. Something only the very lucky and very stupid did. But Jonathan new where to step, who to talk to, and how to slip into the background until he seemed nothing more than shadow. He knew what areas belonged to what gangs and who was apt to shoot first and ask questions later.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to be careful.

Besides, the car wouldn't do much in the way of protecting him, anyway.

The Master of Fear slipped silently into the doorway of a seemingly abandoned warehouse and knocked twice. The door opened instantly and Jonathan walked in, pulling his mask slightly out of his pocket.

He nodded at the thug inside.

"George."

The thug spotted the mask and nodded back.

"Scarecrow."

The Master of Fear checked behind him briefly for signs of traps and/or hidden thugs and then said, "I need to see White."

George turned without a word and headed for the back room.

Jonathan checked around himself once more while he waited, touching his sleeve to feel the brace beneath it that held several vials of his toxin, as well as the trigger mechanism to send the gas shooting into any attacker's face.

No sooner had he done this, George returned.

"Th' boss wants t' see ya."

Jonathan nodded and walked past the thug and up some steps to the back room a few flights up, keeping his peripheral vision trained on the man until he was out of sight.

The last thing he needed was to get shot in the back.

The Scarecrow strode quickly to the back of the warehouse and rapped sharply on a wooden door of an 'office'.

"Come in." came a voice from beyond the wood paneling.

Strange… Jonathan thought idly as he pushed open the door, The Great White Shark must have a cold.

And his voice did sound deeper, somehow. Or maybe it was just the Master of Fear's paranoia.

The mob boss stood, his back to Jonathan, shrouded in shadow and staring through the window in the back of the office at the flickering lights of the city.

Jonathan waited.

"You wanted to see me?" White asked without turning.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. There was definitely something wrong with White's voice. Maybe his vocal chords were finally giving in to the warping they must have received from the freezer he'd been locked into.

"Yes." the Master of Fear replied to the Shark's query. "I need information."

"And what makes you think that I can supply it?"

Jonathan snorted. "Oh please. Let's not play this game. I know we haven't exactly been friends in the past, but if you think hard enough, I'm sure you owe me a favor. Nearly everyone does. Besides," Jonathan said, trying a different tact, "You practically own the Narrows. Everyone knows it. Not much goes on around here without your noticing, so you must know something about what I need to know."

For a moment, White didn't respond. Then he began talking again, though it sounded as if it was more to himself than Jonathan.

"This place is like a cancerous tumor that spreads over time but never quite kills its victim. But we'll soon change that."

The Master of Fear frowned in confusion, suddenly feeling uneasy. This didn't sound like the Great White Shark at all. Warren White? The man who used the chaos of the city to his advantage, trying to rid Gotham of corruption?

This wasn't like him at all.

As a matter of fact, he was starting to sound a lot like…

"Yes, I'll change that." White began again. Then, suddenly he turned.

Jonathan strained to see the man's face through the shadows.

"Change will begin. Starting with…" the man stepped from the darkness, "…you."

"No…" Jonathan whispered, eyes widening. "No…"

He tried to raise his arm; tried to gas the monster in front of him. But before he could get his arm up even halfway, it was wrenched back by the thug who had been at the door. Jonathan, going suddenly limp with shock, turned, just in time to see George bring the butt of a gun down hard on his temple.