Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Batman universe or any of its characters. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

Power

2006

The night Jonathan Crane escaped from Arkham Asylum would become legendary in Gotham City. If the Wayne Murders had been shocking and horrific, then that tumultuous night had been outright bloodcurdling and cataclysmic; never before had Gotham experienced such a widespread state of panic, even in boroughs untouched by the gas. By introducing her dwellers to a new breed of fear Crane had irrevocably changed Gotham forever, and decades from now, when those who had breathed in his toxin were old and withered and gray, they would gather their grandchildren and tell them in a hushed, uneasy tone—as if still fearful that Crane would somehow hear them—the terrible, terrible tale of the night Jonathan Crane escaped from Arkham Asylum.

When the gas began to burst from the city's water system and flood through her streets the initial reaction had been startled confusion, a typical response to something sudden and strange emerging from somewhere equally unexpected, and some gasped or swore in surprise. But within seconds mystification turned to terror as the toxin burrowed its way into their brains and they were overcome by the relentless, consuming pandemonium that seized hold of all those within the literal cloud of fear blanketing Gotham City, assailing them with chemical-induced visions so frightful that they either lashed out with primitive violence or fled deeper into the toxin's haze. Gunshot after gunshot pierced the air, throngs of the panic-stricken pushed and trampled and climbed over their fellow man in animalistic self-preservation to escape invisible horrors, and scattered throughout the chaos were those paralyzed by their fear—bodies stiffened, feet rooted to the spot, their faces contorted into an expression of stupefied horror and their lips unable to vocalize the screams strangled in their throats.

The city was tearing itself apart, and it was even more beautiful than Crane had fantasized.

In Arkham he had been forced to keep Scarecrow hidden away, another secret to add to the growing number concealed behind the basement's locked door, and only under the most undetectable of conditions did he dare slip the burlap over his head. But as he rode atop a coal-black beast with eyes that burned bright-red through the fog and a mouth that breathed fire, the oppressive straitjacket now billowing behind him like an absurd tattered cape and the mask's rope gripping his neck with the loving embrace of a noose, Crane felt as if his wildly-beating heart would burst from the unbridled euphoria surging through him. For the first time in his life, Jonathan Crane was truly, completely free.

He thought back to what Ra's al Ghul had promised him that fateful evening in his office, when the mysterious figure had presented Crane with blue poppies and an offer of what he prized above all.

"Power, Dr. Crane. More power than you can possibly imagine."

As he paused to admire the hell he had created, his grin wide and wicked beneath the burlap, Crane realized that Ra's had just fulfilled his half of their bargain. True, the previously-discussed ransom demands were now worthless given that Gotham had already been poisoned, and there would be no briefcases lined with more crisp green cash than he could make in ten lifetimes—but Crane's work had never been about greed. Power had always been his greatest reward, and tonight he ruled over the nightmares of millions. Tonight, Crane was powerful.

In the haze before him he caught a close glimpse of a familiar face, brown hair disheveled and her arms wrapped protectively around a young boy. She had survived—how?—and, most insultingly, among a sea of frightened faces Ms. Dawes wore an expression of determination and courage. Crane would have to fix that.

"It's okay," Rachel reassured the boy, pulling him close to her chest and away from the horrors unfurling before his terrified eyes. "No one's gonna hurt you."

"Of course they are," Crane remarked from the fog, and with a smirk he rode forward.

DEVIANT DOCTOR ESCAPES ARKHAM

CRAZY CRANE FLIES FREE

SCREWBALL SCARECROW STALKS GOTHAM

The headlines were numerous, each one somehow more undignified and ugly than its predecessors. The first night Crane caught sight of his own name peering out at him from behind the dirty window of a newspaper dispenser, unmistakably plastered in a thick font as bold as its audacious headline and accompanied by an enlarged grainy black and white copy of his Arkham security badge photo, he felt bile rising in his throat—not from fear of being recognized (a dirty cap and baggy sweater, sunglasses, and nearly a week without access to a shower or razor had provided an adequate, albeit unpalatable, disguise) but from outraged, nauseated disgust. The electric burn on his cheek—a gift from Ms. Dawes—stung hotly, and behind the sunglasses his eyes narrowed in anger.

Becoming a news subject was not entirely unexpected; over the course of a single night Crane had achieved a remarkable level of notoriety, and he would have been a colossal fool to believe that his actions would go unreported. But he had not foreseen the crassness, the absolute filth that would be smeared across his life's work. Crane was an unrivaled innovator in the study of fear, an artist who used chemicals and manipulation of the mind to create terrifying beauty, a psychiatric revolutionist, an enlightened man who viewed fear for the marvel it was: an inescapable presence, more deadly than any bullet or blade, that was worthy of reverence and awe. And for that these small-minded imbeciles, every bit as stupid and cruel as all the other bullies Crane had suffered throughout his life, would dare insult him? They were incapable of comprehending the purity of his devotion to fear, and so they instead chose to judge and mock—leaving Crane, once again, to be the recipient of ridicule slung by those who could never understand him.

He imagined reporters practically frothing at the mouth as they pieced together a narrative depicting him as some sort of deranged mad scientist; if they were ambitious enough, perhaps they'd delve into the secrecy surrounding his departure from Gotham University and Crane's subsequent inability to obtain another teaching position despite his excellent qualifications, or—if they were really ambitious—perhaps their investigation would somehow take them all the way to a certain patch of dirt in Georgia, and the empty garden post above it where a scarecrow once stood. He imagined talk show hosts with Crane's image emblazoned on a screen behind them, wearing immaculate suits and somber expressions and using words like "insane", "sadistic", and "disturbing", before the camera panned over at exactly the right moment to capture the audiences' scandalized faces. He imagined the gossip-mongers of Gotham poring over cheap tabloids with preposterous claims of Crane's whereabouts on the cover, their fingers speedily flipping through pages containing outlandish speculation about everything from his experiments to his activities outside of Arkham, gleefully devouring every lie without so much as a single pause to consider its veracity. To them and their ilk, Crane was not the powerful, brilliant, fearsome man who brought a city to its knees—he was simply entertainment.

Beneath his sweater the rough fabric of the burlap mask pressed against Crane's chest, its stitches like thistles on his skin.

He knew that he was feared by many, if not most, of Gotham, and that the millions who had experienced his toxin were likely to live with unflinchingly-vivid memories of its hellish effects until the day they drew their final breath. But still there remained those who were defiant, who denied Crane his rightful hold over their fears and instead mindlessly praised the brute they called a "hero": The Batman. Crane swore to himself that would not rest until they too had succumbed to the toxin, and only then—when they had sunk to their knees, eyeballs bulging from their sockets and madly tearing out fistfuls of their own hair, aware even in the midst of delirium that their precious savior had been reduced to nothing more than the corpse of a dead bat—would Crane grant them forgiveness.

But not mercy. Never mercy.

Never.

For now, he would slink away into the shadows of the city's underbelly: not to hide, but to rebuild. From an early age he had learned that the most effective way to survive was to be as inconspicuous as possible, to sink into his surroundings until he was nothing—only a shadow under a tree, another loud creak in the rotted Keeny Manor, a nameless face obscured by a book—and he could try to exist unseen by those who meant him harm. As a boy he had been invisible to everyone but his tormentors because no one else cared enough to notice him, but now Crane was the most wanted man in all of Gotham City, and no one would see him unless he allowed them to. He would bide his time, just as he always had, until he was ready to emerge and strike—and this time, there would be no hero, no last-minute rescue, no salvation, no escape.

No Batman.