The Bat-bunker seemed ominous this time around. There was a weight that crushed down on its occupants, slumping their shoulders, and really making everyone depressed.

It was early morning easily, nearly dawn. The sun would be coming up in the next hour, which meant all of them needed to get back to their lives, if only for daylight hours. A big reason for the late hour was a stop at the Thompkins clinic. Dr. Thompkins had insisted on doing thorough checks on each and everyone of them, seemingly taking forever to bandage the few of them that needed medical attention.

Nightwing was one of those who needed the attention. Currently he was wearing only his pants and domino mask. His torso was bare save for the white bandages wrapped around his abdomen and the scattered dressings on his back, shoulders, and chest. He was one step away from being a mummy.

Huntress had been looked over too, but hadn't needed more than an ice pack to her head, along with being forced to stay awake. She had a mild concussion and was required to be conscious for several hours. Manhunter had been treated for knife cuts, though she was having to call in to work due to the one wound on her face.

Thankfully, there was no real damage to Jason. Just some scraps and bruises, but he'd live. The others were in much better shape.

That just left their pending meeting.

"Well, that sucked," Huntress opened for them.

"Agreed," Red Hood concurred.

"I mean, what the hell happened out there?"

"We got in over our heads," Black Canary responded quietly. "Which is something we need to improve upon."

"Improve how?" Manhunter questioned.

"For starters, we need better intel on what we're going up against," the blonde woman started. "None of us were prepared for the rocket launchers. We also went headfirst against two different sides trying to kill each other. That's fighting two different fronts and we're not ready for that kind of fight."

Nightwing bowed his head at that. He had been so gung-ho for them to go in, he hadn't even thought of the logistics. They had a computer hacker that could supply them with that, so why hadn't he used her better?

"So what, we get a scout now? Have someone search the entire place before we storm it?" Huntress asked. "Or we let Oracle do the searching?"

"That's an idea right there," Green Arrow pointed out.

"Then let me ask you why she wasn't already doing that?" the purple-clad woman shot back. "She was one of the ones advocating for this team-up. Why hadn't she already thought of doing it before? Why hadn't she already found out what we needed to know before we went in?"

Because she hadn't thought of it? Because no one else thought of it until now? Because they were all in over their heads? All of these answers flooded Nightwing's mind. However, this arguing wasn't getting them anywhere. They were all tired and beaten and had places to be very soon.

"So we adjust," he spoke up, earning himself the attention of the group. "All of us will need to get intel, not just one or two. Yes, there will be someone that gets the bulk of it, but we are all responsible for ourselves and each other."

"Nightwing makes a good point," Katana agreed.

Slowly, Huntress nodded her head. "Okay, I can get behind that."

The dark-haired man shifted in his seat then, leaning forward. "Huntress, you were with the Bat longer than any of us. Maybe you can give us some insights on how he worked. Maybe we can use that for our own benefit."

The purple-clad woman stared at him, her eyes glazed over. Clearly she was considering his words. "He did watch a place before going in," she said then. "He made sure he knew who was where and how many. He didn't go crashing into places unless it was part of the plan."

Nightwing frowned at that. While he had worked with the Bat a few times, it seemed like the guy made things up as he went. When they were crashing nightclubs while trying to find Tim, there had been no hesitation as he broke through windows. And then the Thorne diamond bust, he had changed their plans over and over. Then their attack on Arkham had him leading the charge against the asylum's insane patients.

And yet, they had come out victorious. It was almost like he willed them to succeed. Glancing around the table, the young man wondered if there was anyone here that could do the same thing.

"I guess you could say Canary's right. We need to do better scouting and figure out what we're going into," Huntress finished.

"And perhaps not fighting Bane the first chance we get," Green Arrow added, humor laced in his voice.

"What do you mean not fight him?" Red Hood exclaimed as he looked at the Emerald Archer. "We have to fight him."

"Tell me, what made you think it was a good idea to attack him head on? I'm not sure how good of a fighter you are, kid, but this isn't just some street punk. This is a guy who knows how to fight. You can attest to that since you were one of the ones to fight him." Green Arrow leaned forward, staring down the younger boy. "And he creamed all of you."

"He didn't beat us that badly," Red Hood seethed.

"I guess not, if you consider being knocked out not getting beat badly. Nightwing over there has some cracked ribs and Huntress has a concussion. That isn't adding to the fact that Bane walked away without bothering to finish you off."

"What I think Arrow is trying to say," Black Canary interrupted, shooting a look at the archer before looking right at Red Hood, "is that we're completely unprepared to fight someone of Bane's caliber. For now, we need to avoid a direct confrontation, not until we figure out some kind of weakness."

Red Hood never looked away from Green Arrow, glaring at the blond man. "Fine, if that's how you want to play things," he responded eventually. "As long as that goes for everyone."

"You're not going to see me argue," the green-clad vigilante said.

"I'm glad we're all in agreement."

Nightwing perked up at the sound of Oracle's voice coming through the speakers in the room. "I've been looking into that group you met, the Demon's Fang," the computer hacker informed them, which had the rest of the room's occupants straightening up in their seats.

"I'm sorry to say, I've got almost nothing."

"What do you mean you have nothing?!" Huntress exclaimed as she shot out of her chair, forcing its legs to screech against the floor. Her hands pressed down against the table as she leaned forward.

"I mean there's practically nothing on these guys. I've checked every database I know: CIA, MI6, Mossad, SVR, Interpol—you name it, they have nothing. No one has heard of these guys."

"So what, does that mean these guys are new or something?" Bluebird suggested as the purple-clad vigilante began lowering herself back into her seat.

That was definitely a possibility, at least until Oracle said, "Not exactly. See, I did find something. In fact, it was the only thing I could find on them and it came from the GCPD of all people."

At this, there were many confused looks shared between the vigilantes. A moment later and a light emerged from the center of the table. In the light was a series of photographs, enlarged so that they could all see them clearly.

From what Nightwing could make of it, it looked like some sort of battlefield. There were bodies laying all over the place; however, he could make out two distinct groups. One group was definitely those Demon's Fang guys, dressed in bodysuits from head to toe. The other group, on the other hand, looked just like the old Jokerz gang that had been running around when he first started. Many of the Jokerz had large smiles on their pale faces, looking very much like they had been exposed to Joker Venom.

"Jesus, what is this?" Green Arrow breathed.

"These are photos taken from a construction site outside of Gotham a few years ago," Oracle informed them. "According to the date these were obtained, it was right around the time the Joker returned to blow up Gotham again. Clearly they were taken afterwards, but this is literally the only shred of proof these guys exist before tonight."

"So let me get this straight," Black Canary spoke up. "The only person that knows of these guys...is the Joker."

For a moment, Nightwing wasn't sure how the blonde woman had come to that conclusion until the pieces fell into place for him. Though it was unknown back then, it was revealed that the Joker had been the head of the Jokerz gang. The use of his Joker Venom was his calling card. Put those together and the picture of Joker Venom victims and it suddenly made sense.

"There's no telling where he is either," Huntress added then. "He led that big escape at Arkham recently, so he's running around the streets doing God knows what. And it's not like we can just walk up to him and ask him about the Demon's Fang."

Manhunter ran a hand down her face. "So we're basically at a dead end with this group."

"Not necessarily." This time, everyone turned their attention to Red Robin. "You heard what their leader was saying about Gotham and it's protector, right? The way he was talking, it sounded as if he knew Batman."

"Where did you come up with that?" Red Hood questioned, raising an eyebrow at the other boy.

"Just the way he talked. I mean, he called him the Detective, right? Batman was known as the World's Greatest Detective. Then there was the way he said Detective. It wasn't a sneer, or a put down; there was genuine respect," Red Robin explained.

"So we're talking about a group that has possible ties to Batman," Huntress surmised. "That seems far-fetched to me. Batman never mentioned being part of some weird group to me."

That's when Katana spoke up. "These men, this Demon's Fang, look very much like ninjas. In Japan, ninjas are assassins, so I would not be surprised to discover that these men are assassins."

"And that has what to do with Batman?" Manhunter asked.

"Batman has a fighting style that is similar to an assassin," she answered. "Though I have observed he has toned down on those techniques, it was very noticeable upon his return to Gotham."

Okay, there was a something rotten here. A group of ninjas who claimed to know of Batman and their only documented appearance was around the time Batman returned from his hiatus. There was too much coincidence here.

"It seems we've stumbled right into a genuine mystery," Green Arrow summed up as he leaned back into his seat.

"One that will have to wait until tonight." At this Black Canary stood up. "We all have day jobs to get to. I suggest we end this meeting now and resume it this evening. We have more to talk about our next move and we're all too tired to be wrapping our heads around what we just found out."

"I second that," Huntress agreed before looking to Nightwing. "What do you think?"

Upon noticing everyone looking to him, Nightwing nodded his agreement. "I agree. We'll pick this up tonight. However, there is one last thing we need to discuss."

Seeing that he had the attention of the room, he continued, "The leader, this Ra's al Ghul, he knew my identity. He actually said my name."

Eyes widened as mouths dropped open. The shock was palpable. However, Nightwing wasn't done yet. "And...he indicated he knew who all of us were."

The silence stretched longer as the astonished expression were soon joined with the paling of faces. Red Robin was actually trembling in his seat. A couple of the others were staring right into the table.

"How?" Huntress finally managed to ask. "How can he know? How does he know?"

"I don't know, but he did say he won't expose us. I'm not sure whether to believe him though."

"I can't. I won't," Manhunter responded. "If his claim is true, he has us by the throat. We can't openly oppose him if he has some ulterior motive. All he has to do is let out our identities and it's over for us."

Nightwing grimaced. No doubt, Manhunter was right. One move against this Demon's Fang and their lives were over, just like Tim's with Two-Face. This time, though, he doubted a move across the country would fix things.

It was one, giant problem they had on their hands.

"For now, there's nothing we can do," the young man said slowly. "We just went though hell last night, so we can't even think of a proper course of action. Right now, we need to get some rest. When we meet up tonight, we can discuss our options with clearer minds.

"Until then, everyone be safe."

Officer Anderson patrolled the hallway, eyeing the bullet-ridden walls. There were bodies all over the floor, ones he recognized as Italian mobsters through his years on the police force. There were others, men of Hispanic descent wearing black combat fatigues, ones he was coming to recognize as men belonging to Bane. It was clear both sides set off a battle here, one side trying to wipe out the other. Considering he saw more dead Italians than Hispanics, and Anderson was willing to wager Bane had come out on top.

The firefight had done a number on every hallway and room he had come across. For example, the light fixtures were all damage in this hall, save for one or two that cast dim lights. It was enough for him to see, but he stilled used a flashlight.

Reaching a doorway, he flashed the light from his flashlight into the room, scanning it for any survivors, finding none. Because of the moving light, shadows seemed to dart in and out, retreating from the light only to give chase right behind it. This room had minimal damage, the spattering of blood reaching from the doorway inward notwithstanding. Satisfied with what he saw, Anderson carried on moving to another room.

Again, he beamed in his flashlight, searching the room and noting some gunfire had gone off here. There were a couple of Bane's men on the floor, deceased from what he could tell. Considering they had their backs to the doorway, the officer suspected the two men had come into the room and the Italians had mowed them down from the doorway. Ignoring the moving shadows and a dark, crouched figure, Anderson turned to go further down the hall.

The police officer took a couple steps before he came to a stop. Slowly, he stepped back and looked back into the room. Pointing the flashlight back through the doorway, he found something black huddled over one of the dead men's bodies, seeming to search it for something.

What the hell was that?

Suddenly, the figure stopped, its body stiffening. Then it shot straight up, revealing it to be wearing a cape and horns that emerged from its head, save for one that was bent over midway.

Then it spun around and Anderson found his heart sinking. There, staring right at him, was a man dressed up in some crude form of a Batsuit. The Bat Symbol looked self-made on some weird material. The utility belt was bulging with all sorts of things, which Anderson feared to be weapons.

However, it was the masked faced that really got his attention. Beneath the open mouth and eye holes was pale skin and red lips. "Greetings, Law Enforcement Drone!" the very recognizable voice of the Joker greeted him. "Never fear, for Batman is here!"

Anderson blinked his eyes bewilderingly. He knew the stories; hell, he had been around for the last time the Joker tried to nuke the city. This was a genuine maniac that could and would kill you in a heartbeat. Why he was dressed like the Batman, he didn't know, but part of him wished he already had his gun drawn. While he could still do it, any fast movement could cause this maniac to react as well.

This made the other part of him grow stronger, demanding that he run down the hallway screaming.

"Wh-what are y-you doing here?" he managed to sputter out.

"Well, my dear officer, I am investigating!" the Joker proclaimed proudly. He then shot an arm out, his hand holding something that Anderson really couldn't make out in his hand. "And I found a clue!"

"A...a clue?"

"That's right, Drone! A vital clue that will no doubt lead me to the location of the nefarious villain that committed the crime here! Now I simply have to…" he trailed off.

The Joker frowned then. "Waaaaaait a minute, I'm supposed to do this unseen. I'm supposed to go in, find this clue, and get out without anyone knowing. I think I messed up here." He then retreated his hand back, using the back of the same hand to prop up the elbow of his other arm as he placed a hand beneath his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. "I've breached the secrecy protocol here, though that's no fault of your own, good sir. Clearly I need to rectify that, but how? WWBD…"

"WWBD?" Anderson questioned.

"What Would Batman Do," Joker replied and then paused. "Oh! I've got it! I'll just make a smokescreen and vanish! Now we're back on track!"

Immediately, the Joker reached into his belt and pulled out a large ball. "Thank you for being so patient with me, Law Enforcement Drone! Now you see me! Now you don't!"

Then he raised his hand up and threw the ball to the floor, where it exploded into a cloud of green gas. Alarms went off in Anderson's head as the cloud began spreading out towards him. He knew that gas; every cop in the city knew what it was! That wasn't some smokescreen, it was Joker Venom!

Anderson spun on his heels and took off running down the hallway, trying to get as far away from the deadly gas as he could. Grabbing at his radio on his shoulder, he began shouting, "All units, stay away from the building on 32nd and Cicero! There's Joker Venom everywhere!"

Reaching the end of the corridor, Anderson then bolted down another hall, just as his radio came to life. "You sure there's Joker Venom there?" someone demanded.

"Damn straight I am! I just ran into the Joker and get this—he's dressed like freaking Batman!"

Dick was growing increasingly frustrated. After last night and how things had gone downhill so quickly, it was understandable that he was feeling this way.

He supposed that he should count them all lucky that no one had yet to think about leaving the Network. What was supposed to be a turning point in the battle for Gotham turned out to be the opposite of that. However, just because no one had said anything about leaving didn't mean no one was thinking about it.

Yet, what really was getting to him was Bane. In particular, that one-sided fight with Bane where he was little more than a damn punching bag. Hell, if he was one, the chain that held him up would have snapped after one hit from that monster.

His ribs agreed with that. Christ, it felt like they were grinding against one another.

Perhaps trying to work out some of his frustration on a punching bag of his own while those same ribs were not in tip-top condition was not a smart idea. But he couldn't sit still and trying to thinking and rationalize through everything wasn't working. So he was going to work it out of himself, one way or another.

But each punch he threw sent a streak of fire up his sides. Every jar that happened whenever his fist struck the bag sent uncomfortable tremors throughout his torso and aggravated his insides. Even the grunts that slipped out didn't make things any better. In little to no time, his body was drenched his sweat, his breathing so much heavier than it should be, and he conveniently overlooked how pallid his skin looked.

He needed to be better. There was no choice in the matter. Someone needed to be able to fight Bane at his level and not the vigilante's current one.

And so he did his best to ignore how fire seemed to race up his sides with each punch he made. He would have thrown in kicks, but yeah, that hadn't been a good idea when he last tried and his body let him know about it. So he stuck to punching and ignored how much sweat was thrown off his body with each attack he made.

Then something jostled him from a side, wrapping around the arm that was ready to be thrown out.

"I think now's a good time for a break, don't you?" Who...oh, Tim. The teen was restraining him though he tried to look casual about it. Unfortunately, his former partner had aggravated his ribs in the process and Dick couldn't hold back the grunt that slipped out.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Let's sit down, take a break—"

"Let go of me, Tim."

To Tim's credit, he didn't flinch back from the tone of voice the older man used. Dick was in no mood for the usual bantering he and the younger teen used to do. That was a relic of a bygone era and right now they were in the middle of a new, and terrible, one. They needed to start reflecting that.

"Sorry, not sorry, but I'm going to have to say no to that."

"This is not the—"

"—time for you to make yourself a cripple and instead sit your ass down before you hurt yourself more? I totally agree with that."

"Tim."

"Dick. Seriously, you have, what was it, broken ribs? Even if they're not and they're fractured, you can't be doing this right now. You're going to hurt yourself and put yourself out of action and we can't afford that right now." Dick raised an eyebrow at the sharp tone of voice Tim took and one look into the teen's eyes showed that he wasn't about to give in any time soon.

Unfortunately, his ribs were screaming at him to listen and whatever it was that was keeping him on his feet decided that now was a good time to ditch him. His legs began to wobble and suddenly Tim was acting as a crutch, fully supporting him.

"See, this is totally what we don't need now. Come on, let's take a seat."

And down onto the mat he went. As much as he wanted to, Dick didn't flop down, instead easing himself onto his back and gulping in breaths of air. Oh, why did it hurt so much to breathe now?

Meanwhile, Tim sat back with his arms behind him, propping himself up. Instead of doing what he knew the teen was dying to say, the younger male sat there mercifully looking like he might starting humming any second now. He prayed that Tim wouldn't do that; that would make the "I told you so" moment even worse.

After some time had past, only then did Tim say, "Better?"

The answer to that was obvious: no. Dick ended up showing that by doing nothing but panting. Yeah, what a way to show you were hot stuff right here.

"I get it, Dick. I understand," Tim sighed. "Remember back before I had to leave? With Two-Face finding out who I was and everything? I'm betting that's what you're feeling like right now. Helpless, frustrated, angry, but there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Everything's taken right out of your hands and no matter what you do, you can't...you can't get any of it back."

"Please...Tim...no heart-to-hearts. That's...rubbing salt...into the wound."

"Alright, then explain how doing...this, is going to help anyone, or anything?" Tim gestured towards the punching bag and at the young adult's body. "Do tell me then. Because I think everyone's gonna love to hear how you put yourself out of commission just as we're trying to make this Network thing work."

"What am I supposed to do? Take it easy? Because Bane sure isn't doing that with Gotham!" Dick snapped, glaring up at Tim.

Tim was unfazed. "What's all the talk about doing this smart, then? If you're not going to be smart and let your ribs heal, then what's the point of having you on the roster? Seriously. I should tell Barbara what you're doing and that's going to go over so well."

He eyed the mother-henning teen warily. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Tim retorted. "You're lucky I intercepted the call from that girl, you know, the one with the dye job? The rest of the Batclan's worried about you and so am I. If we want to beat someone like Bane, then no one can be doing dumb stuff like this." Another gesture of his arm to the punching bag. "The world may be falling apart, but we have got to keep it together because no one else will. It's up to us, remember?"

"Is it? Because last I checked...it's always been up to Batman. If he couldn't do it...what are our chances? Nil? Nada? Are we just jerking ourselves around with this idea? Am I jerking my self?"

"There's no way to know if we're doing the right thing, or if we're going to succeed, but we have to try anyway," Tim said softly. Dick had to strain his ears in order to hear him. "I know that I don't keep in touch as much as I should, but since I left, I've met a lot of people. A few of them you have to wonder why they're still moving, why they don't just give up. Yet they do, and somehow, when we're together, we're able to do some incredible things. Do we mess up? Yeah, we do. But we keep at it, we fix it, live and learn and all that crap. It's the same thing here. We can beat Bane. We will. We have to. Because Batman wouldn't give up.

"So we can't. Because then Bane wins for sure and we have to let the Demon's Fang pick up the slack. I don't know who they are, but we can't trust them. Who knows what else they're planning, and that it just so happens to be at the same time Bane's making his move. In some way or another, this is our home and we can't give it up without a fight."

"Even if it kills us?" Dick asked.

"Especially if it kills us," Tim stated. "From this point on, everybody has to know that there's a chance a few of us...some of us...maybe all of us may not get out of this in one piece, or even alive. We gotta accept that that's a possibility and then continue fighting. We can't lose here. We can't afford to lose. Because all the years running around as the Batclan, Barbara and her back, me and Two-Face, what would it have meant? Would it all be in vain?"

Dick set his jaw, clenching his teeth together. His automatic thought was hell no because Barbara didn't get paralyzed for no reason, or that Tim didn't make an enemy of a psychotic former district attorney for nothing.

But then the memory of Bane backhanding him, throwing him around like a ragdoll, and his hand wrapped around his throat watered down any anger he felt. He was lucky to have gotten out of that situation with the injuries he did have.

He was lucky he was still alive.

"Go home Dick. Take a nap, or something. Get something to eat. Just...rest. Let your body do what it needs to do, and we'll see each other tonight when we begin planning our counterattack," Tim continued, his voice still soft. The teens lips curved into a smirk, "Otherwise, I might just take all the glory and make you look bad."

He couldn't help it. "Like hell you will."

"That's the spirit," the teen praised. "Now I'm going to pretend that you weren't here, alright? I'll make sure no one else finds out so that way you won't get sidelined, but you gotta go home and rest. Trust me, I know what it's like to be sidelined. It sucks."

"Fine," Dick sighed, smiling lazily. "I won't pull a you."

"Yeah, don't pull a—hey, what's that suppose to mean!"

Adjusting the flame, Crane left the latest batch of fear toxin to boil. There were some chemical processes that needed heat to begin reacting and this was one of the key parts. However, he needed to be careful. Any fumes emitted from the compound had the potential to induce the hallucinogenic fear reaction that was the substance's purpose.

Even though it had been so long, it felt so good to be back at the table once more. Almost like riding a bicycle, though he himself had never ridden one before. The saying was appropriate for this situation.

So far, this wasn't the only batch he had made, just the current one he was working on. Since he had about twenty minutes or so before he needed to do anything else with it, he took the time to turn his attention to another project he was working on in his free time.

And he had a lot of projects. The big one was figuring out a way that he could begin mass producing his toxin. He wanted a lot of it, instead of making the small amounts he was forced to right now. To do that, he was going to need large quantities of the toxin's ingredients.

Those were a lot of uncommon materials, so he had been researching other ways to use different, more common ingredients to make his brainchild. Surprisingly, he had been making a lot of headway with it. In fact, the current batch was a test sample, a new formula if you would. Theoretically, it should have the same properties as the original, but there needed to be some testing first.

Which led to his other project: an alternative dispenser of the toxin. He was thinking of a glove, one that used retracting needles, but so far it wasn't working out too well. Then he wanted to incorporate a way to still use the aerosol form of the toxin; there was so much he wanted but was having trouble combining together.

A shame he didn't major in engineering.

Crane gave a sigh from behind the cloth-based air filter he wore. Despite how busy he was now, he wouldn't trade it for all the world. This is what he thrived on, not languishing in Arkham's dungeon. He was a man of the mind, a seeker of knowledge, and admirer of all that was fear. To further his research, that was what gave him meaning, and after all this time he finally had the opportunity to do so once more.

And it was one he was fully taking advantage of. No more was he in that next to condemned apartment. He was in a better facility, one that could cater to his needs. All of his needs. From here, who knew where it would take him? More importantly, where would it take his research?

Frowning, he had the sense that he was being watched. Crane looked over his shoulder and was slightly proud that he didn't jump off the stool he sat on. Looks like his benefactor had returned.

"Say something next time. Please, please, do not just appear out of air like that," he said. He mentioned nothing about how another dark-colored man did the same thing years before.

"Tell me about Hugo Strange," the Phantasm stated, though it felt more like an order than anything.

Ah yes, to business. From what information he was able to glean, his partner-in-crime here was on the hunt for any and everyone involved with the now-defunct False Face Society. Once, he himself had tried to join its ranks only to be made into a manufacturing drone and left to rot in Arkham. There was no love lost between the former psychological researcher and the criminal organization.

And much to his own surprise, he found lately that whatever loyalty he may have had to his once-mentor was lost.

"I doubt 'please' is in your vocabulary, but then again neither is it in mine," Crane remarked as he turned back to the counter that held his work. "Professor Strange was the man that mentored me during my doctorate program at Gotham University. The man is smart, insanely smart. He is always thinking of possibilities that have yet to be considered, but he's more than willing to share. However, he only shares with a price."

"Where do I find him." A statement, not a question.

"Hiding is a surprising skill he has. However, based on what I know of him, he is a man of comfort. He won't lower himself to a place that he would see as beneath him." Crane knew the story well, how Strange had sold off everything he owned and left Arkham Asylum only to reappear in the private sector as a psychiatrist for the rich, powerful, and straight-up gullible. Always in the lap of luxury. "But I doubt he has gone far. Personally, I don't think he left Gotham the first time, and if what the stories are saying are true, I think this time is the same case. More than likely he too has set up shop."

"Where."

Really, Crane understood the impatience, more than anyone would ever know. "As I mentioned, he has a talent for hiding. He also has a talent for recruitment. Odds are he still has a contact or two in the city that he could have used to set himself up. If he hasn't been arrested or you haven't gotten to him yet, I would look into David Franco."

David had been yet another middle man, one that Strange had conscripted to allow Crane to have a place to stay prior to his meeting with a mobster. It had been an arrangement that had ended upon his later capture.

"Now, before you go pay him a visit, should he not have shuffled off the mortal coil, here's what you wanted," Crane continued as he reached out and picked up a vial that had a screw-on top. A clear liquid sloshed inside of it, and the fear expert handed it over to the man with the blade for a hand.

The Phantasm gazed upon the vial for a second before taking it and tucking it away beneath his cloak.

Oh, what did people see after they were exposed to the toxin? Based on the masked man's design, it had to be something truly terrifying. Not for the first time was Crane tempted to see for himself, but he knew all too well the potency of his toxin; there were always hazards to making something new that were unavoidable.

But he would have to settle for Strange finding out. Served the bastard right. After all the years, working together, mentoring, everything, that man abandons him to the mercy of the Batman without even giving a warning or a heads up.

Well, it was long overdue that Crane pay that stiff back.

And as the Phantasm withdrew, leaving him to his lonesome, the man also known as the Scarecrow returned to his projects with new inspiration. All the while, his latest concoction continued to boil.

Ah, his patient was stirring.

Strange looked away from the table top counter, where various papers, books, and several syringes filled with a clear liquid resided. He had in particular been admiring the syringes, the instruments which held the fruits of his labor. There was a beauty to them, one he found he had trouble looking away from.

A human moan, though, was a good distractor. Turning away, his gaze fell on the sight of a man who was restrained to a kitchen table with various ropes and restraints. It was a familiar sight, eerily familiar even.

Unlike last time, this was a man whom he had picked up right off the road. That he was running away from gunfire had made him desperate and gullible enough to accept a ride from a perfect stranger. The former shrink had been aware of the situation happening in the area, and had seen it for the opportunity that it was.

He was in need of some guinea pigs.

"You were out longer than I had anticipated," Strange greeted as the restrained man began blinking his eyes open, the effects of the tranquilizer wearing off.

There was a bleariness to the man's eyes, as if the drug had not fully left his system. How disappointing; he would need to wait a moment. Moments like these required full awareness to fully appreciate them.

"Wh-w...wh...ere...where am I?" the man rasped, having difficulty even speaking. Hmm, perhaps that had been too great a dose? That was something for future reference. A simple adjustment to the dosage and he wouldn't have to wait so long for them to wake up.

"Who…?" Ah, more coherency. "What? What the fuck is this?"

Rage, anger, so nostalgic. It was almost like meeting an old friend.

"So glad you could join us," he quipped. "I hope that you rested well."

"You're making a big mistake, buddy," the restrained man growled. "Do you know who I am?"

"I believe you will enlighten me," Strange drawled.

"I'm Mario Falcone, you asshole! Falcone!"

Falcone? Now there was a name he hadn't heard in a long time. And like everything else, it was something in the past, dead and buried. Another reminder that even the powerful can fall—one that the scion of that family appeared to need to relearn.

"Get these goddamn things off me already! I swear, you're gonna regret this!"

"A word of advice, young Falcone," Strange cut in before a self-entitled rant began. "That name of yours? It has no power here. Understand the situation: you are powerless and at my mercy. As of this moment, I have need of you and you will perform."

"You're only making this worse for yourself," the proud Falcone snarled.

And now the nostalgia was gone. Perhaps another tact was needed.

Moving away, Strange returned to his workspace, reaching for a nearby drawer. Opening it, he removed a small syringe, one that also possessed a clear solution within it, but couldn't be more different. This was a substance that held a more sinister purpose.

Returning to Falcone's side, Strange uncapped the needle all the while searching for a spot to jab it in. Unfortunately, it seemed this time he had neglected to divest his test subject of his outer layers of clothing. He wasn't about to make the effort rolling up a couple of sleeves to find bare skin, so instead he reached out to the collars of both the man's coat and collared shirt.

Without concern, Strange injected the fluid into Falcone's neck, heedless of whether he had gotten an artery or a vein. In a few minutes, it wouldn't matter anyway.

With his neck tensing, tendons jutting out from beneath his skin, Falcon demanded, "What did you put into me?"

"Something to make you more...suggestible," the deranged psychiatrist answered casually, setting the used syringe aside. "We'll give it a minute to let it make its way to your brain."

"You are dead. You hear me? Dead!"

"If you believe you are the first to say that to me, you are sadly mistaken. Similar to the others, they all regretted saying that." By then, Strange had retrieved one of the syringes he had been gazing at earlier. "What I just injected into you is the least of your worries. Save your concern for this. At this point in time, it has yet to be tested, and unlike others, I will not make myself the test subject for it."

"Get that shit away from me!"

"Feeling any regret? I knew what I was going to use you for before I even set my sight on you. I need to know the effects of this serum, and lucky for you, you're my guinea pig. Whatever happens, I hope you don't die from the exposure to it. I have...many questions that I want answered before that."

"Ngh...no…" Ah, and the earlier injection was taking hold. Good.

"Hold still," Strange instructed as he stood before the restrained Falcone. Going for the other side of his neck, he injected his serum into the bound man, watching critically as the liquid was pushed into the unwilling body.

Then he stood back and waited. He need not wait long. Falcone began to thrash, his body heaving. Then his clothes began to rip as muscles began to bulge.

Strange's lips curved into a manic grin.