Arkham is hardly the place to conduct oneself in a manner that betrays even an inkling of vulnerability. Contrary to what one may assume upon hearing of its status as a hospital (allegedly!), it is, in fact, not a place of healing. Arkham is a place where those whose unique psychological makeup makes them both unfit for society and prison -- a place to put a person to forget about them. Hopefully. The tricky thing about that type of person is that, in Gotham, they’re all escape artists.
Jonathan has, on occasion, been known to accuse the Joker of “toilet water concoctions” on the subject of his laughing gas. It’s relatively well known that the laughing gas is a cruel bastardization of Crane’s own fear gas. But Jonathan, too, has been known to use a bit of toilet water as a base for toxin in times of dire need. Escape being a necessity, one takes what inert porcelain containers one can get when otherwise the only option are highly-conducive metallic drinking glasses. The alarms were raised, but whomever happened to find the skinny old man hiding in the ducts were swiftly dealt with.
Outside the walls of Arkham, down the hill upon which it’s perched, on the road where the buildings of the city began to thicken in density, Jonathan catches his breath and pulls off his burlap mask stolen back from contraband. Fresh air hits his face where before only filtered air came through the nose and mouth openings of his mask.
He doesn’t have money for a cab, so he takes one by force. The cabbie falls out of the driver side door and gasps for a breath of clean air as the cloud of toxin around his face thins, entering him like a pathogen. As the cab peels away into the night, the cabbie screams in terror, all balled up on the pavement.
The radio is a nice change. He doesn’t get to pick the music that plays in the common room over and over and over again on loop. With the windows down, the radio can be heard as the stolen cab races past the city features, heading out toward the countryside just beyond Gotham. The old money neighborhoods are characterized by lawns and gardens -- luxuries which simply cannot be found in the city. Not all the houses are mansions, but most of them are. Wayne Manor takes up the largest plot of land and features the largest lawns and gardens of them all.
Crane pulls the stolen cab into the drive of a house far less extravagant than Wayne Manor. One might not even feel a degree of remarkability towards it, if not for the way it felt strangely out of place. A home amongst simple buildings. The radio stops as the key turns, and the car door makes a harsh sound when he closes it.
Behind the house, between it and the woods beyond, he can see a garden. It’s a relief to see greenery after living in a literal dungeon for six weeks.
“Eliza?” Poking his head past a tall piece of shrubbery, mask in hand, still wearing his orange jumpsuit, Crane can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Boo.”
