It's that time again: Halloween fic time! Hooray!

"Okay, okay, what do you guys think of this one?"

"Child, my restroom facilities are not a changing room," Crane said. He scanned Harley's latest costume. "Especially not for changing into that!"

Harley looked down at her outfit. "Ah, what's wrong with it, Professor Crane?"

"No medical facility in the world would allow its staff to expose their midriffs!"

Harley rolled her eyes. "I'm not really a nurse, silly. It's a costume."

"It's ridiculous."

"Fine." Harley pouted. "I've got plenty more where that came from."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Crane muttered.

Harley didn't hear him, as she was too busy slamming the door to his "restroom facilities." There was the sound of a zipper being pulled, Harley shucking out of her skimpy nurse outfit, and then more rustling of clothing as she wrestled her new costume on.

"Ta-da! You gotta like this one!" Harley proclaimed, throwing open the door and presenting herself.

Crane's mouth fell open. "You surely aren't serious! Ivy would kill me if I willingly allowed you out in that! You're making a mockery of the female form and the floral form!"

"Come on, I'm a pretty rose," Harley said.

"Thorns do not belong there! It's like...Madonna!"

"Who?"

Crane face-palmed. "Madonna would be conservative compared to what you've got on."

"I want a second opinion. Jervis, what do you think?" Harley asked.

Jervis stammered, "Well, I don't think-"

"Then you shouldn't talk!" Crane snapped.

"You're just bein' mean now, Professor. Don't listen to him, Jervis. I want your honest opinion."

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Jervis said.

"He's just a big Grumpy Cat. Hey, that would be a great costume for you! Grumpy Cat! We could paint you gray, and borrow some stuff from Selina, and-"

"We are most certainly doing none of that! I don't care what you two dress as—so long as it isn't a salacious rose, nurse, or other mockery of the natural or professional world—but I shall don one costume and one costume only: that of the almighty god of fear, the Scarecrow!"

Harley blew a raspberry. "You dress like that, like, every day. You gotta be something else on Halloween."

"I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then," Jervis added.

Crane glared at the Hatter. "No, you insipid little milliner, you changed exactly once. From the Mad Hatter into a white rabbit!"

"And you're super, super adorable and fuzzy and I love it!" Harley squealed. She flicked Jervis' bunny ears (which happened to be Playboy Bunny ears he'd painted from neon pink to a much more appropriate white) and squeaked again. Crane winced at the sound.

It would be some time before Harley was done petting Jervis and cooing over his little puffball tail (again salvaged from a costume originally intended for risque young women) and his expertly crafted waistcoat and his authentic antique pocket watch. While Crane waited, he decided he'd go off and check his stockpile of fear toxin. He'd been brewing it nearly nonstop for the past two weeks, as Halloween was his biggest day of the year, and he wanted to ensure everything was in order.

Crane counted his canisters of fear gas, tested the valves and trigger mechanisms to make sure they'd spray at exactly the right moment, and then checked his mask and its air filter. Satisfied that he wouldn't end up accidentally gassing himself and ruining the fun before it started, Crane returned to Harley and Jervis.

He'd chosen his moment well, as Harley had just finished poking Jervis' painted nose and whiskers. Or, he decided a moment later, perhaps he hadn't chosen well at all. Now that she was done with Jervis, Harley focused all her attention on Crane and his utter lack of cute bunny costume, as well as his refusal to allow Harley to dress like a slutty plant.

"Yeah, so like I was sayin', Jervis got a real nice costume. And I'm gonna find a great one. But what are we gonna do about you, Professor?"

"You're going to ignore me. And finish using my restroom as quickly as possible."

"I can't make any promises," Harley replied. She then disappeared into the bathroom.

Crane and Jervis stood next to each other like awkward middle-school students at their first dance. Complete with the awkward, silent glances at each other.

Harley emerged like a beautiful butterfly from its chrysalis few minutes later. And like the butterfly, she'd managed to grow wings. Unlike a butterfly, her wings were made of plastic and probably contained at least a little lead paint.

"A fairy?" Crane asked.

"A fairy princess," Harley corrected, pointing to her crown.

Crane sighed. "At least it makes you decent."

"It's way better than decent! It's awesome!" Harley twirled, the pink gown billowing out and the wings crinkling. Crane idly wondered how long the cheap costume would hold up to Harley's athletics. He hoped it was long enough to get her out of his house. If the costume exploded into rags once she was on the street, he wouldn't have to hear her crying about it.

"Yes, that's it!" Jervis said, nodding his approval at Harley and her ballerina routine.

"Thanks, Jervis," Harley said. She gave one more spin and then stopped her ballerina routine. The costume had held together and required nothing more than a little smoothing of the dress and a slight righting of the crown to be perfect again.

"I'm glad I've got my costume, but Professor Crane, we still need one for you."

Crane reiterated, "I have one costume, and one costume only. I am the Scarecrow, and never anything else."

"But what do you do when it gets dirty if you only have one?"

Jervis nodded. "I was wondering that, too."

"The first time you speak your own words all night, and it's out of concern for my dirty laundry! I don't wear it constantly. Look, I'm not wearing it now! When it gets dirty, I wash it. For the overwhelming majority of the time when I'm not wearing it, I have civilian clothes."

"How many outfits do you have, anyway? 'Cause that sweater doesn't look like it can take much more," Harley said.

Crane crossed his arms defensively. "Enough about my clothing! Don't you have candy to steal from children?"

"We're not gonna steal it, we're gonna get it fair and square," Harley said. "And I'm gonna get the most."

Considering her competition was an adult man dressed as a rabbit, it would be horrifying if Harley received less candy.

"Enjoy yourselves," Crane said. "But before you go, I'd appreciate it if-"

"Come on, Jervis, before all the good stuff's gone and we're stuck with popcorn balls and toothbrushes." Harley grabbed Jervis' hand and pulled him out the door.

"-you'd clean your mess," Crane finished to the empty room. He turned to his bathroom slash fitting room and sighed. It looked like a costume shop owned by a hoarder who valued her collection more than the functionality of her toilet. Crane shook his head. Here he was, a scientist, picking up after a woman who had once been a doctor. Picking up her Halloween costumes, yet.

It took two trash bags to contain all of Harley's costumes. And it took quite a bit of willpower not to throw said bags down the trash chute. It was only the knowledge that Harley would cry that forced Crane to stash the bags by the sofa instead of disposing of them.

Now that his bathroom was usable again and there was nary an over-sexed nurse or plant to be seen, Crane could move on with his plans for the night.

And they were going to be spectacular.

The Scarecrow's Halloween escapades were as traditional as the annual Treehouse of Horror. This year, though, he decided to supplement his lesson in terror with a lesson in humility. And there were none more deserving of this double-dose than drunken college revelers attending the largest Halloween party at Gotham's largest nightclub.

There was nothing more assured of its own immortality and invincibility than a young man just old enough to drink, especially when he had partaken of enough of said drink. At the mere thought of humbling such a specimen, and forcing it to face its darkest fears, Crane shuddered with pleasure. This would truly be a Halloween to remember.

Just as soon as he finished lugging these canisters downstairs.

Once the back of his van was laden with toxic cargo, Crane had only one last thing to add. And it was something considerably lighter than metal canisters.

A pack of orange and black balloons.

Trendy nightclubs populated by college kids didn't tend to look kindly on homely middle-aged men dressed in burlap. Crane needed a way to get inside unnoticed, and to appear nonthreatening until the moment was right. And like Pennywise the killer clown, Crane figured that idea was balloons.

One of Crane's canisters contained more than just typical fear gas: helium. He used this container to fill the balloons. When he had a lovely, distracting, totally innocuous bunch of balloons bobbing about the van, he closed the rear van doors and climbed into the driver's seat.

The gaggles of children running across the street as though they were Superman and vehicles couldn't reduce them to paste quickly wore on Crane's nerves. He considered saving a canister or two of toxin for the little brats, but decided it would be futile. By the time he was finished with the club, all the children would be safely tucked into bed or running around their rooms in manic sugar highs.

Mercifully, the nightclub was located in an upscale part of town that, being mainly populated by bars, restaurants, and other clubs, attracted very few underage people. And those it did attract were quickly booted out, along with their shoddy fake IDs. Crane was able to drive a little easier.

All available street parking was, as Crane expected, taken. Luckily for him, he had one magic word that allowed him to find a spot. Delivery. He parked alongside employees and the night's entertainment in the back lot. His spot put him only thirty feet from the service entrance. While the DJ was able to park closer, Crane couldn't complain too much.

Keeping his mask off for the moment, Crane exited the van and opened the rear doors. He grabbed a handful of balloons and a canister. Thus burdened, he walked up to the back door and knocked.

The door was opened promptly by a security guard who looked like he took his job at least half seriously. Crane had hoped to find an overweight, lazy guard who wouldn't look at him twice, but he'd come prepared for integrity.

"Last minute decorations," Crane said.

The guard looked at the balloons and rolled his eyes. "They're just going to try and get high off them."

Crane shrugged, though inside he cheered. He hoped at least one idiot would try and give himself a chipmunk voice with the helium.

"Yeah, I know, not your decision. You're just the delivery boy."

Crane nodded, and imagined force-feeding the guard one of the balloons. Instead, he adjusted the canister, hoping the guard got the hint. It looked like he did, as he held the door open for Crane.

"I've got a few more helium containers in the van," Crane said.

The guard snorted. "They are going to need an ambulance."

Several, Crane wanted to say, but contained himself.

"I'll keep the door open for you," the guard said.

"I appreciate it."

Crane hauled the balloons and canister along the poorly-lit hall. Long before he reached the end of the hall, he could hear the throbbing music from the heart of the club. The thudding bass would work in his favor, disguising the first screams and letting the toxin spread further.

The hall ended in a door that opened unobtrusively in the corner of the club, near the bathrooms. Crane released the balloons and left the canister just inside the door. He then returned to the van, carried two more canisters inside, and repeated until all his supplies were within the club.

Now it was time for the next phase. Crane moved all the canisters except one from the hall. This final canister was a thank-you gift for the security guard. Crane opened the valve slightly and then pulled his mask on. He made sure to shut the door securely behind him.

The club was dark, chaotic, loud, and packed to maximum capacity. While that meant Crane was jostled constantly and had to witness far more grinding and twerking than any man should ever be subject to, it also meant nobody paid much attention to him.

Crane placed his other canisters at strategic places. Near the front entrance, emergency fire exit, and behind any sufficiently large decorations including, but not limited to, a plastic pumpkin, a gravestone, and a Frankenstein that at least one person had already spilled beer on. The canisters properly scattered, Crane cut through the crowd toward the DJ booth. He had a mic to steal.

A cluster of costumed girls, most of whom had Harley's taste in outfits, surrounded the DJ and tried to influence his next song. Considering everything he seemed to be playing was either Thriller or a techno version of Monster Mash, Crane wasn't sure what the girls expected.

The DJ was the first person in the club to take real notice of Crane, if only because Crane was the first person not dressed as a sexy version of a normal profession that he'd seen around his booth. He wasn't alarmed, not yet, he just prepared to give Crane the traditional brush-off he'd given everyone else who came with a shitty request.

"I need your microphone," Crane said.

"Uh, no," the DJ replied. He then leaned into said microphone just as the current song was finishing, and announced that he'd next be spinning I Put a Spell on You (despite the fact that all his music was digital and he had no physical record to spin).

Crane was in no mood to play games. He used his height and long legs to his advantage, and hauled himself into the DJ booth. The DJ was none too pleased with the intrusion, but considering the intruder was more than half a foot taller and pretty damn creepy-looking, he decided to wait for security.

"Kill the music," Crane ordered.

The DJ pressed a button and the music died. Before anyone could start complaining or asking what had happened, Crane took the microphone.

"Good evening. I hope you've all enjoyed the festivities," Crane said.

"Woo!" someone in the crowd shouted.

"Excellent! That will make the following announcement all the better. You are all about to become part of an experiment. The point of this experiment is to discover what happens when fear toxin is introduced to an intoxicated crowd of young males and females."

There was no "woo" greeting this statement. Crane smirked behind his mask. From inside his costume, he withdrew a simple remote control. It had one button, one job. He pressed the button, and the hiss of escaping gas rose from around the club.

If he needed to be discreet, it was easy for Crane to create colorless fear gas. In this case, though, Crane wanted his victims to see it, and to be herded by it. Billowing clouds of venomous red would keep anyone from trying to escape out either the main door or emergency exit. And thanks to the canister he'd left inside the delivery door, anyone smart or lucky enough to spot that final retreat would likewise run straight into a lungful of terror.

"This is the part where you start screaming," Crane said.

Within seconds, cries of panic drowned out the hiss of the gas. Crane looked over at the DJ, only to find him gone. Lovely. Crane settled down in the chair the DJ had abandoned. He considered fiddling with the music system, but decided against it. The screams were music enough.

Crane watched the blind, animal panic of the clubbers trying to hide from the spreading gas clouds. Some of them thought hiding under tables or bar stools would somehow help. Or that their sleeves would successfully filter fear gas. It was pitiful.

But damned amusing.

Then something caught Crane's eye that drained all the fun out of the night.

It was a flash of pink clambering onto a table and desperately waving at him.

Oh, no.

Surely not.

Then a white rabbit joined in.

"Christ."

Crane vaulted over the DJ booth and into the melee. Someone made a grab for him, and he dispatched the would-be hero with a concentrated blast of toxin to the face. The now-terrified failure plowed ahead of Crane, inadvertently creating a path for him. Crane took full advantage of the situation and reached the table and its castaways.

"It was much pleasanter at home!" Jervis cried to Crane.

"Yeah, he's right, Professor Crane! Why'd you ruin the party? We were havin' fun!"

"What are you doing here?!" Crane demanded, grabbing Jervis' waistcoat and giving him a shake.

"We were out trick-or-treating and we met these guys who said they were going to an awesome party. So me and Jervis decided to check it out. And it was a lot of fun, but then you started tryin' to kill everybody!"

Jervis pawed desperately at Crane. "I don't like fear toxin, Jonathan. Please."

It took real fear to punch through Jervis' insanity and get him to speak in something beside Lewis Carroll. Crane bowed his head. Then he slapped Jervis' grabby mitts and turned to Harley.

"I'll get you out of here," Crane said.

"Hurry up, 'cause I'm starting to see stuff!" Harley wailed.

Crane took a deep breath. He then pulled off his mask and pulled it over Harley's head. Once she was safely breathing filtered air, Crane grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the emergency exit, which was closest.

Over years of working with chemicals that could turn against their creator given the slightest opportunity, Crane had developed quite the lung capacity. Despite this, by the time he'd dragged Harley through the toxic curtain in front of the exit door, his chest was burning and his head was starting to spin.

They burst into fresh air seconds before Crane had no choice but to take a gulp of breath. He released Harley's hand and fell to his knees. He stayed there, doubled-over and panting, until he felt Harley poking him in the arm.

"W-what?" he gasped.

"You gotta go get Jervis."

"Bugger."

Crane rose to his feet and plucked his mask from Harley.

Once more unto the breach. As he pushed his way back into the club, Crane silently promised that next year, he'd stick to smaller victims.

The End!

Thanks for reading.

Many of Jervis' lines come from the assorted works of Lewis Carroll.

And Happy Halloween!