A RECIPE FOR DISASTER

We need villains!

"They don't know, they never have, they will learn eventually, but for now they are in the dark. In the dark, all is clouded, shaded from view. They stumble blindly forward through the hallways and peek in on the cells of poor men and women, smart individuals who committed no crimes but take advantage of their intelligence... The real crime was removing us from a position of potential power, taking away our ability to succeed in life and excel to a higher grade of living. We are all simply trying to live, utilizing our talents as intended upon our creation." Crane continue to mumble the same sentiments regarding his condition to no one in particular. He found that the only person worth his time speaking to was himself. Even if he did find himself partial to company other than himself, it was difficult to communicate with other human beings in the solitary confines of a dark prison cell in Arkham Asylum. Crane's eyes were set wide in the blackness of the room, absorbing as much residual moonlight from a covered and barred window as he could. He needed to see to plan, not that he knew what to plan. And if he could not see, and thus could not plan, he had no need to worry about planning. Instead, Crane resumed his mindless ramble on the errs of the men who had placed him here in this place. One would think such a rotten place as Arkham would be a fitting home for a man like Jonathan Crane. Yet, he detested it. Its familiarity only reminded him of his own errors in life, which he preferred not to think about. In the darkness, all the demons come out, preventing him from avoiding his darkest fears. It was excruciating. Intoxicating, but excruciating. "They threw us in here because they fear us, fear what we are capable of. They think our only purpose in life is to hurt and maim and destroy. Could they be any wronger? All I want is to study the mind, as I always have. If that involves a little human manipulation and entails a rise to power using the insurmountable strength of fear along with it, is that really such a crime? I'm human, my one goal is to be satisfied... And I can't be satisfied with nothing to prod at it here in this pitch black. Crane became crazed suddenly. "I can barely see my own hand in this darkness! Someone turn a light on, turn it on now! I need to see to do my work! And throw me a scalpel while you're at it, my nail are getting oh so bloody!" His fury faded off into a calculated measure of maniacal laughter. Such was the life of Crane, whom could only find solace in insanity. It gave him an answer to the "Why?" question, which would not go away despite his every answer. He could always justify it with insanity, though. And then it would go away, for a little while. Suddenly, a voice whispered to him from small barred window. He jerked his head up to peer at the figure of a man's head behind the metal bars. "Hello?! Who's there?!" Crane jumped up from his loathsome seat on the rubber floor and made his way cautiously over to the wall. "You must be here to collect me." He went on in his unnaturally collective, controlling way. "Well hurry up, I've been waiting much too long." There was a small flash of light and the bars disappeared. Crane felt himself becoming woozy, suddenly, and passed out. When he next awakened, he found himself not in the confines of his cell, but in a plush crimson chair. He licked his lips apprehensively as he peered around himself at a bright room. There seemed to be no other forms of life in the room but he. His theory was proven incorrect as a heavy chair across the room spun around to reveal the silhouette of a man sitting in it. "Jonathan Crane. Former professor of psychology. Shot a gun during a demonstration." Crane gritted his teeth, not wishing to relive the day his dreams fell apart. It could also be called the day he dropped the rest of his bag of marbles, which would have emptied eventually anyways after the first hole he put in it the night of his high school prom. "But no one knows that man." The voice was gruff with a unique character to it. This was not a plain man. The silhouette moved slowly out of the way of the chair and made his way over to Crane, holding a wine glass. As he neared, Crane studied his features. He was middle-aged, well-built, with the remnants of a suit left on after a hard day of business work. The man had an air of control and ambition to him that somewhat disgusted Crane. Power was wasted in all the wrong places these days. "The people of Gotham know Mr. Crane as the Scarecrow, after-" the man began, but the snappy Scarecrow cut him off. "I wrote the book, I know what happens." The man stopped in his determined movement toward Crane. "You don't know how it ends." Crane gave him a sarcastic smile. "Do you? I have a sequel in the works." The man laughed at him. "What a character. I can't tell if breaking you out was a good or bad idea. Judging by your very few accomplishments... Well, let's just say the closeness of your cell to the easiest entryway was a huge deciding factor." Crane's smile faded slowly from his face. The man was starting to bore him with his imagery and insults. "What do you want with me? You might as well just throw me back, Mr..." "Marcone." "I have heard mention of you before. The up-and-coming villain mob boss of Gotham, they say!" Crane exaggerated with wild gestures, having risen from his seat to speak on the man's level. "You could say that. If you know that much, you probably know that I'm gathering allies. Temporary allies." Crane smirked at him. "Oh, how gracious of you Mr. Marcone. The Scarecrow would be humbled to give the new squirt on the block his gifts!" Crane bowed deeply to the man in mock reverence, coming up with a smile to watch his reaction. The man did not crack in the least. "You owe me, Crane. If my name has gotten around to your cell in Arkham, I must be a big deal, yeah? If it weren't for the new squirt on the block, you'd still be talking to the voices in your cell." Crane nodded in sly agreement with the man. "So I owe you. Are you going to release me?" The man nodded silently before sipping at his drink. "My men will show you out. You remember what I said. Here are my contact details when you're ready to repay your debt." Crane scoffed at the man when he turned around to returned to his desk. How dare he exert his power on Crane himself like that. "And if I don't repay this "debt?" The man remained silent. Fear would not work on the Scarecrow... Marcone's men came and led Crane to the front door. He walked out as quickly as he had come, with a new trench coat to boot. He had no intention of paying the man back anytime soon, and would honestly rather kick him off his high horse once he regained his own power in Gotham. The Scarecrow tipped his hat to Arkham Asylum as he passed its frozen exterior, headed to his old home in the cellar of a rundown mansion. ------------------------------------------ A few weeks passed before Crane decided he would repay his debt, becoming bored with his new freedom. Using the private number given to him by the men on his way out, he called up Mr. Marcone and offered his services. He mentioned a new toxin he had concocted that he had been itching to test out. Mr. Marcone mentioned that he knew of a way Scarecrow could assist him. Crane agreed and set out in the night.