I don't own anything here. Nolanverse, Batman Begins. This is basically a warm up, because I haven't really written anything in a few years. I'm falling back into the Scarecrow/Dr. Crane fandom, and I guess this is me, contributing to that in a way I didn't when I was first active. Mad props to wouldyouliketoseemymask for her great fics, and inspiring me to go down this path. Review if you want, like I said, this is pretty much a great big refresher on how to be a fanfiction writer for me, and I'd be glad to hear your thoughts.

The alarm clock went off at six-thirty a.m., sharp. A heavy, dry hand depressed the button. The man in the bed stood up. Average height, on the slim side; brown hair pressed close to his skull on one side from sleep.

The man ruffled his hair to get it out of his eyes, which were a startling blue. A quick shower and shave before he walked back to his stark bedroom, where he took his time getting dressed. A white collared shirt, a brown sweater-vest, and a dark blue suit with the faintest of pinstripes. The suit looked neither new nor old, just worn.

From the bedroom, he moved to the kitchen area of the penthouse. Most of the rooms were filled with dark wood furniture and plush leather chairs, filling the whole place with a sort of collegiate air, like a common room or professor's lounge. However the kitchen was mostly empty. There was a metal table with two chairs, half full cabinets and a fridge mostly filled with test tubes and curiously labeled containers. He reached behind these containers for a carton of milk. Cold cereal for breakfast, and a hot cup of coffee. He perused yesterday's newspaper almost absentmindedly before placing the empty bowl and mug in the sink to clean later.

Before he left his apartment, he slid on silver-framed glasses and did a quick check of his person: wallet, keys, phone, briefcase. And a few capsules in his pocket filled with some sort of powder.

The man walked precisely seven minutes to the nearest monorail station, where he boarded the train. The rail to the Narrows, where Arkham Asylum is located, arrived on time at 7:45 a.m., and he at the asylum a few minutes before 8:00.

Upon entering the asylum, he checked in at the front desk, where he retrieved his identification badge. "Dr. Jonathan Crane, Head Psychiatrist". Dr. Crane walked through the hospital-like lobby and down several white tiled hallways. Soon he was in the staff wing, which looked a bit more hospitable. The floors here were swept, and bulletin boards with paper cutouts of flowers and flyers advertising bake sales hung every few hundred feet. At the end of the hall, Dr. Crane opened a wooden door with his name on it, disappearing inside.

He opened his filing cabinet and thumbed through several folders until he found the one he was looking for. Simms...Sproles...Squires, Sherry. He pulled out the folder and set it on his desk. Inside, however, was not a file on any patient, current or former. Although the name was one familiar to him, the contents of the folder contained his most secret research.

Dr. Crane had been working on perfecting a fear toxin for some time now. His interest in fear, always active, had become even more so since leaving his previous job at Gotham University and becoming a psychiatrist at Arkham. He had chosen to hide his progress under the name of the first casualty of his experiments in fear, many years ago.

Nearly a month ago, he was approached by a representative of an organization called The League of Shadows, a well dressed man named Ducard. The League had heard of the young man's brilliant mind ("Of course," Crane thought) and his research, and was interested in helping.

"What research?" he responded, straight faced. "I am no longer tenured at Gotham University, as you can see, and the care and keeping of the mentally unstable hardly provides the correct atmosphere for producing more academic work." He cocked his head slightly to the side, lips pressed tightly together.

"That's not what we've heard," Ducard purred. "We were under the impression that your interests tended towards the more...macabre. That you look to turn fear on those who would cause it. That you would do this through scientific research, a compound. We believe we may be able to provide you with an ingredient to help you accomplish such a task." Ducard raised an eyebrow, his eyes smiling. He knew already that he had Crane's attention.

And so The League of Shadows, through Ducard, employed Dr. Crane. They provided him with a rare blue flower from Bhutan, where they were headquartered. The powdered concentrate of the flower was a truly powerful hallucinogen, one that he was glad to get his hands on. Almost greedily, he found ways to keep much of it for himself, stored safely in several locations lest he ever be discovered, so that he would always have more if he needed it.

Following instructions by The League, he diluted the powder, and had begun to dump it into the Gotham water lines, via pipes deep under the asylum. He had enlisted the help of patients, testing the various stages of the compound on them, and sneaking some of the more damaged cases into the basement area where they were put to work cracking the pipes and dumping barrels of the compound (which they also helped to mass-produce) into the water main.

All he had to do was put on his mask. It kept the bad air out, and the inmates frightened.

His mask was made of burlap sack, coated inside with a flexible latex and outfitted with a breathing apparatus to protect him from the inevitable when one works with air-based compounds. It was hand stitched, with holes ripped to make the eyes and a jagged mouth. He had based it on a scarecrow that used to hang in a cornfield near his grandparents' house as a child, except it had been warped in his mind through the years into a monstrous visage.

It also proved useful in controlling his underlings. Under the influence of his hallucinogenic substance, they were made to see their worst fears coming to life, and the appearance of the masked creature would often times be enough to cause a panic among the affected inmates. He even used his gas and mask on unruly patients, ones who were threatening to become a handful, or seemed defiant.

"Would you like to see my mask?" was all he would have to ask.

Today, he had quite a full schedule on his plate. He had an appointment with a candidate for admission to the asylum, where he would meet with the applicant and their family, and would perform a few rudimentary tests to determine if the asylum was, indeed, where he or she belonged.

Then he had lunch with Carmine Falcone, Gotham City's premier crime boss, and his partner in bringing in the shipments of the powdered flower. As far as Carmine knew, they were just drugs that he was importing along with cocaine from somewhere overseas. Crane preferred that it stayed that way.

Later in the afternoon, he planned on sitting in his office for a few hours, pretending to work on paperwork (that he was actually just going to pass on to his secretary, Mina, later) while instead dwelling on his own genius.

Finally, before heading home for the evening, he was going to go down into the bowels of the asylum and check on the progress of the inmates who were stationed down there. Normally that was something he would do late at night, but he preferred to be at home on the evenings that shipments were coming in.

He imagined it now: lighting a fire in the fireplace, popping open a bottle of champagne, and working on his notes. One day, when his genius was fully recognized, he intended to have his work on fear and experiments with the fear toxin published.

It was not that Crane thought that deep down he was some misunderstood scholar, and that his work was really for a good cause; he was fully aware that his intentions were not noble. But in the future, if he had his way, they would be too afraid of him to refuse his work. It would be his manifesto: My Life, My Work: FEAR by Dr. Jonathan Crane. Something like that.

But for now there was work to do. Toxin to mix, laws to navigate around. And there had been talk lately of some sort of vigilante; a man in a mask, outfitted in bat wings who had it out for the criminal element in Gotham. Crane had already dismissed him as a non-threat, although he certainly wished he could perform experiments on this masked man. What would drive a man to putting on a costume like that? Surely he had something to hide. What was he afraid of? Crane smirked to himself at the delicious thought.

Not now. Later.