Batman Begins/Dark Knight 1. No Such Thing As Bad Publicity

Hey! I'm taking a break from the Crane out of Context one-shots to write this. I considered condensing it to fit in there, but it just didn't seem right; I had too much I wanted to write. So I present to you: Chapter 1 of Shadow Stalkers.

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"So, the bottom line is, since the appearance of the Bat Man, crime rates appear to have been dropping significantly...but because, as you know, there are many variables that can be linked to the causation of criminal behavior, this conclusion is...well, inconclusive."

"Thank you, Sergeant Gordon. Well, if no-one else has any business to discuss, I think we can wrap this meeting up!"

It was the monthly Professional Staff meeting at Arkham Asylum, mandatory for all the most important people: The warden of the penitentiary, the administrator of the on-site hospital, the head therapist and the head psychologist. All these **Very Important People** had been seated in a boardroom converted from several guest bedrooms in Arkham Manor, one of the oldest buildings at the Asylum, and where Amadeus Arkham himself once lived and practiced.

Usually the staff meetings involved a sharing of information across the board, so no one department would be kept out of the loop any more than the others. Occasionally they had visits from people in public office, like the mayor, the district attorney, or, like today, a sergeant from GCPD.

Gordon, dark circles under his darkened eyes, wearing dark frames, stood, swiping the back of his hand across his nose as he collected his papers. He looked frustrated at the dismissal, and tired. This was a man who had seen his efforts overlooked one time too many.

The overhead light reflected on a pair of shiny silver frames, and alert, cold, blue eyes.

The men and women seated around the table began to stand, cracking their necks from side to side, stretching their arms and legs, clearing their throats and rumbling vague sentiments of discontent. A quiet but clear voice piped up.

"Actually, I believe I have a matter of business."

Tobias was the head of both Arkham's publicity and human resources departments, the publicity department having been absorbed into HR when it became apparent that no amount of ad campaigns or pretty flyers could change Arkham's history, or perception. He'd done a good enough job with the relatively new outpatient program, where housewives and chronic shoplifters could come and unload, and then go back to whatever cesspool they had crawled out of at the end of the day. But nothing could make the public forget the dangerous criminals who were housed on Arkham Island, any more than they might associate Arkham with the modern facilities installed over the years, rather than the gothic spires of the Manor.

And yet here was Tobias; quiet, unassuming Tobias, with "a matter of business."

The blue eyes narrowed, the reflection in them now dangerous; the silver steel glasses looking particularly sharp. The man turned his dark head in the direction of the offending voice. Dr. Jonathan Crane, the head psychologist, looked at Tobias angrily, lips pursed.

Crane was at the asylum to conduct research. To learn more about the mind, why people did what they did, and how. He had full access to the vast Arkham library, amassed over decades, and contributed to by some of the greatest minds Psychology had ever laid claim to, himself being one of them. He had the patients, and their therapists. He had a cushy office in the Manor, and smaller ones in the other buildings (although those might amount to barely more than broom closets, but still._ It's the principle of the thing._) He had everything he could have wanted, and just a little bit more after that.

Crane also had a sizable intellect, thirst for knowledge, and greater thirst for power. His specialty was fear, which he had once taught at Gotham University, one of the youngest professors they had ever employed. But to teach was not enough. There was still so much more to learn...and so he worked his way up in Arkham, from therapist to head psychologist. And, with the help of a rare blue flower he had acquired through quite questionable channels, he had begun experimenting with the causes, effects, and subtleties of fear in the inmates he presided over.

In fact, he had plans that very evening to test out a strain of what he affectionately termed as "fear toxin" on a patient that night. He was named Arthur Cody, and he claimed that Frank Sinatra told him to rape and murder ten little girls in Denver. He'd been transported to Arkham after strangling a guard. Crane's toxin tonight was liquid, to be delivered in injection form, and particularly virulent. And he was not keen to wait a minute more before retiring to one of his many hidden laboratories, secreted away in the basements and underground tunnels of Arkham Island.

"I've been approached," Tobias began, making sure he had everyone's attention. Wearily, looking around the room at one another with dismay, the men and women returned to their seats around the long oval table, the dust in the air in front of the projector somehow more visible than ever.

"I've been approached by a television network. They have a reality show, something about ghost hunting and the paranormal...I believe it's called-" he squinted and looked down at a printed out email - "'Shadow Stalkers'. It's hosted by three young men, who go to historically haunted places, or places with bad reputations, do an informational segment about it with tours and interviews and eyewitnesses, and then they stay there overnight, to search for ghosts and what have you. They want to come here – to Arkham."

There was a low burst of discussion around the room.

"As head of publicity and human resources, do you think that is responsible? To let three men loose in an asylum? With cameras?"

"Don't worry, we won't let them into any of the areas with actual inmates. They can go through the manor. They said they were interested in looking for the ghosts of Amadeus Arkham and Mad Dog Hawkins, anyway. They won't see anything we don't want them to see."

"And how does that benefit us, hmm?"

"Well, it'll certainly bring a lot of people here for...I don't know, tours and such. We'll be talked about, a topic of discussion! There's no such thing as bad publicity, you know."

Crane's stomach clenched. Although he doubted the three men spoken of could possibly find his research labs, or oust his experiments, it was more of a risk than he was willing to take. It was bad enough having law enforcement tromping through the grounds every few months, just for lousy meetings, not to mention every time the health department came around, looking for code violations and the like. Gordon, he was sure, would be all too happy to have a hand in shutting the place down, if the opportunity arose. If Crane was exposed, he would be forced to take drastic measures...

"Let's put it to vote, shall we?" asked Tobias. "Show of hands: those in favor of allowing Shadow Stalkers to film at Arkham?"

More than half the room raised their hands. Crane's hand was down by his side in a loose fist, fingernails gently scraping off the topmost layer of skin on his palm. Fools.

"Against?"

He raised his hand, the pink crescents left by his nails barely visible. A few others raised their hands, but of course, not enough to overturn the already-made decision. He exhaled.

"Well, that'll be it, then. I'll email the tv station back first thing tomorrow."

There was no dismissal this time, everyone stood and exited as quickly as they could, no waiting around, lest they be called in for one more order of business or announcement. Gordon looked a bit lost amongst the sea of suitdresses and blazer jackets pouring out from the double doors. As Crane approached the door, he caught it from falling on himself, and took a step back, holding it for the sergeant, who made eye contact as he walked through. He looked curious, and grateful. Crane kept his expression as blank as possible.

Angrily, he was the last to exit the room, and retired to his Manor office to take a nap on the overstuffed couch there. He felt a headache developing somewhere both above and behind his right eye, and he simply couldn't focus on his work otherwise.

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...Ok, so I love Ghost Adventures, and I tooootally had the idea for this while watching an episode, and yes, the Shadow Stalkers characters will be quite influenced by Zak, Nick and Aaron from GA, because I think they're _hysterical_. I hope you'll come back for the next chapter! 3, m.


	2. Strangers In The Night

Hey, I should probably warn that this chapter is a little more...I guess graphic? So be aware. Mention of rape and murder.

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A suited figure slowly unlocked the door to cell 6600 in the Arkham Asylum penitentiary building. The man had made arrangements with several of the guards on shift to be somewhere else that night, so he would have plenty of time to do what he had to.

The man continued towards another figure, this one lit from a window high above, through the bars; a big, bright moon. This man was much larger, curled on his side on a flimsy cot that looked like it could barely support his weight. His sleeping form faced the wall; all the better for the man in the suit to approach him unnoticed.

Then, in one sudden movement, the suited man struck a syringe into the meaty neck of the sleeping form, pushing the plunger of the syringe down at a steady pace.

The suited man only hesitated for a moment before he began to move about, certain that the already sleeping man wouldn't wake. He rolled the big man onto his other side without too much difficulty, and pulled several rags from his pockets, one of which he forced into the sleeping man's mouth, another which he tied around his mouth to keep him from spitting out the first rag, and the last one went around his eyes. The suited man then produced a set of handcuffs, which he used to secure the sleeping man's hands behind him.

The first part of his work accomplished, Crane sat at the edge of the bed, creasing and uncreasing a crudely stitched burlap mask in his hand. He waited patiently for the bound and gagged prisoner to stir. There was no rush.

After nearly twenty minutes had passed, the man's body began to heave; he was having trouble breathing, but not out of a dream state just yet. Crane put on the mask, and slipped easily into the formal grace, as he liked to think of it, of the Scarecrow.

Arthur Cody was yelling. Yelling and screaming as hard as he could. Unfortunately for him, there was something in his mouth, preventing the sound from slipping out, and effectively gagging him at the same time.

He tried to lift his hands to remove it, but they were behind his back, and from the familiar feeling of cold metal bracelets, it would seem he was handcuffed. And he had either gone blind, or he was being blindfolded.

Of course, Cody's thought process was a little quicker than that, and a little less verbose. In reality, he realized all these things at essentially the same time, and immediately began to thrash.

Crane grabbed him, pulled him up into his slight but solid arms, and slammed Cody's head into the nearest wall.

The big inmate groaned loudly and went limp for a moment, long enough for Crane to get a better grip on Cody. He leaned in close to the man's ear, hissing through the burlap sack, the rough fabric so close it scraped the prisoner's face.

"As you may have noticed, you are blindfolded, gagged, and handcuffed, so there is absolutely no point in trying to fight back. Struggle again, and you will suffer a sharp pinch in the back of your neck; except this time, instead of a mild sedative, I promise you will receive a lethal poison."  
He was bluffing, of course. He wasn't willing to input any more chemicals into the subject's body, no matter how watered down it may have been, lest it contaminate the subject and spoil the results of his experiment.

Cody either called his bluff, or simply didn't care.

Crane escorted him out of the cell, down several corridors, and into a room used for storing hundreds of spare prison uniforms. Of course to Cody, unable to see and in a panic, it felt like they were walking great distances in no time at all.

Arthur Cody seemed intent at breaking from Crane's grasp, and had he not been so severely capped by the handcuffs and blindfold he surely would have. Crane may have had speed and intelligence on his side, but he was a small man, and not especially violent, at least not physically.

He grunted as he struggled to lift up a particularly heavy trapdoor in the floor of the room, leading to more underground passages, and eventually to one of the rooms where Crane perpetuated his extracurricular activities.

Crane walked Cody to the edge of the staircase down, and placed one hand on Cody's shoulder, and one firmly gripping the back of his skull. In the hand on Cody's shoulder, Crane was carefully holding a syringe, the tip poking at Cody's skin through the fabric of his prison uniform, and the big man imagined a thumb poised carefully over the syringe's plunger, ready to inject him with some kind of snake venom or spider poison. Finally, the man stopped struggling.  
"Thank you. Now." Crane's grip on Cody's skull tightened, and he pushed his head forward, knocking the man off balance, so close to the edge of the stairs. "You first. Watch your step."

Arthur Cody awoke to the motion of the blindfold lifting off of his face. His eyes, blurry from being blindfolded and a few cracks to the head, adjusted enough for him to see his immediate surroundings.

He was in a room with a dirty stone floor; A lone orange bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating a small circle around Cody, but nothing else. The walls were in shadow, so he had no idea how big the room was, although the cold temperature made him feel as if the room were huge. He was no longer handcuffed, but he was strapped into a chair much like a barber chair, hard and uncomfortable. His arms were strapped to the arm rests, and his ankles to the footrest. He leaned his head back hard on the head rest, and sighed.

"HEY! ANYONE HERE?! HEEEY, COME GET ME!" He paused for a moment, and then started to yell again, knowing deep down that no one could hear him, but unable to stop trying.

Somewhere in the dark, something moved. He didn't know how he knew; perhaps it was the slightest rustle of fabric, or the shuffle of a half-step. There was someone or something else there with him.

"H-hey, there, man, can you just cut me free? Can I go? Please, man, let me go."

Something stepped forward, almost visible. He could make out the shape of a man. There was a quiet hissing sound, and he swore he could see some kind of mist or vapor coming from the man himself. Unsure why, Cody shut up, almost forgetting to breathe.

Another step forward. A man emerged from the shadows, with a straw face and straw body, stick arms and legs. No eyes.

"Who are you?" choked out Cody, barely able to get the words out.

"Strangers in the night, Cody. Strangers in the night." He stepped closer, hovering over Cody, who was sweating heavily. "Two lonely people, we are strangers in the night." He slowly pulled a syringe out from his pocket, holding it up to the light. The orange light through the slightly yellow substance made the vial look like it was filled with fire to Cody; it flickered and gleamed with life.

Crane flicked the tip of the needle, and a droplet of fire burst forth, landing on Cody's sleeve.

"Get it off, get it off!"

"What's wrong, Cody? What do you see?"

"What do you mean, what do I see? My goddamned arm is on fire, now please, please put it out pl-please, I need it!"

Crane reached out to pull a clipboard off of a table just out of Cody's line of sight. He scribbled for a second, made one firm check mark, and then turned to the inmate."Only if you cooperate. Then we'll put the fire out."

"S-s-sure, anything, just hurry, for chrissakes!"

"Tell me about Mr. Sinatra. What is it about Ol' Blue Eyes that makes you feel the need to kill? Hmm?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Are you sure? That's not what your file here says. Your file states:" he cleared his throat. "That you received word from Frank Sinatra himself that you were meant to rape and murder ten little girls, all under the age of 13, in the Denver, Colorado area. Now, why do you think he would tell you to do that?"

Cody was breathing heavily now, his eyes darting around so fast, his eyes nearly appeared to be rolling in his head. He was pulling hard, trying to break free of the chair he was restrained to, but to no success.

"Tell me why," Crane said in his iciest voice, volume raised.

"I don't know, man, I just made it up! I made it up now fucking do something! I'm burning"

Crane rolled his eyes and mumbled to himself, "I thought so." He reached again for the clipboard, making more notes, and then he took up the syringe again. He grabbed Cody by the chin, the heel of his hand pressed firmly into Cody's Adam's apple. He forced the man to look at him, to look at his cold blue eyes.

He held up the syringe to the light again, showing it to Arthur Cody. "Do you see this?" Cody nodded lightly, his head trembling in Crane's hand. "Now, I want you to know that this isn't a punishment. I'm not here to play God, or judge-and-jury. Not yet. And while I can't particularly say I approve of your taste in women, I just want to be clear that's not what this is about. Do you understand?"

Cody nodded as best he could again. Crane could smell the panic on him in his sweat, see it in his eyes. He almost imagined he could read his mind, was making promises to the powers that be that if he got out of here alive, things would change, that he would kill the man holding him prisoner, that he wished he'd never taken those little girls, but what he wouldn't give for one last soft sweet something if this was going to be the end...

"This is purely an experiment," Crane said, as he plunged the needle deeply into the man's arm.

Cody watched in terror as the fire went from the syringe chamber into his arm; felt the flames spreading into his veins. He was watching himself burn from the inside out. He was on fire, his breath felt hot and, and steam and smoke began to pour out from his nostrils and mouth as he screamed.

He didn't notice as Crane walked around him, checking his pulse, his temperature, his range of vision and auditory capabilities.

Finally, Cody seemed to tire himself out, and blacked out there in the chair. Crane pulled the mask off of his head, looked at Cody, and clucked to himself. Weak. Clever enough to weasel an insanity plea (even with such a trite excuse), but no match for Crane's concoction. He had succumbed to Crane's fear toxin completely within about eleven minutes. Still, it was impressive. He considered is toxin to still be in its infant stages, and while there was still much work to be done, he had already made great scientific leaps and bounds.

"Fire," Crane said absentmindedly to himself aloud, before opening a heavy door concealed in the shadows. As he opened it, a beam of light illuminated the room, and Cody.

"Ah, almost forgot." He reached over Cody's head and pulled the string, switching off the sole light. Then Crane walked out, closing and locking the door behind him.

Cody dreamed. He dreamed of blue eyes behind a grotesque mask; a straw man with bright blue eyes. And then he took the mask off and underneath was Frank Sinatra, crooning at him, as he caught fire and burned.


	3. Arkham Expert

Sorry this is such a short chapter; we've had a lot of bad weather in the last week or so, plus school has started back and I've had a lot of class/homework to keep up with. I'm still working on this though! Thanks for sticking with me!

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Dr. Crane sat in his office, typing up his notes from the night before with Cody.

A knock came at the door, followed by Tobias' voice. "Dr. Crane? May we come in?"

He froze, and then almost automatically saved and closed his file. The next thought was a curse directed towards his secretary. Where was she? Without Mina to act like a human answering machine, there was no buffer between himself and constant interruption.

He sat very still, with the irrational hope that if he didn't move, they wouldn't be able to tell he was in there. However, the persistent knocking continued as he knew it would. Sighing, Crane called out "One moment," before standing from his chair and walking to the door.

At the door was not only Tobias from HR, but a beefy, sweaty looking man in a blazer and sunglasses.

"Dr. Crane, this is Leroy Gold, the executive producer of Shadow Stalkers. Mr. Gold, this is Dr. Jonathan Crane, the man I was telling you about. He is our head psychologist, no pun intended."

Gold laughed heartily at the joke. Furious, Crane laughed as well, but leveled a scorching gaze on Tobias, who reduced his own laugh to a nervous giggle.

"Good to meet you, Crane," said Gold, and he extended a hand to shake from deep in his pockets, like a cowboy unholstering his gun at a high noon showdown. Crane took his hand, suppressing a cringe at the man's moist hand. (For the record, Gold felt unnerved at Crane's cold, dry, bony handshake.)

Before Crane could say anything else, Gold spoke up. "Dr. Crane, we're going to be filming our lockdown tomorrow night. But in our show, the lockdown is only half the episode; the first half is informational: we get B-roll footage, and our boys get a tour of the place – walk around, check out the grounds, talk to staff and any eyewitnesses to possible paranormal activity. Just get a feel for the place, really. It's good for ratings, and good for the business of the places we visit. Well, rumor has it that you're a bit of an Arkham expert around here."

"Well, I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I follow," said Jonathan.

Tobias then spoke up. "Didn't you write an academic paper about the history of the Asylum that was published internationally?"

Aaaahhhh yes,_ that_. Crane smirked, unable to keep himself from feeling smug. "But gentlemen, I wrote that _years_ ago, in college. _Surely_ there is someone else you can talk to." He didn't even try to hide the hubris dripping from every word.

Gold disregarded Crane's statement. He dealt with primadonna celebrities every day, he was almost immune to ego. "Whaddaya say, Fraiser Crane -" he laughed and punched Dr. Crane in the arm with a bit more force than was probably necessary - "can you give us a tour tomorrow? Get you a little screen time, maybe open avenues to have your paper published again...who knows!" He winked knowingly.

Crane took a moment to think, but only a moment. He was a busy man, with a schedule to keep, and in time, a city to run...but there was no reason that he couldn't take a day off for a television spot, and garner even more acclaim for himself.

"Well, I suppose I-"

"Great! We'll have a sort of headquarters set up outside the asylum grounds in some trailers tomorrow morning. Be there by nine AM for hair and makeup!"

"I'm sorry, what-"

"Bye bye now!" Gold was already half out the door, with Tobias scuttling out behind him.

The inside of Crane's mouth tasted sour, and he wasn't sure if it had more to do with the deal he had just made, or the fact that he had only had coffee to eat or drink in the last 24 hours.

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Sorry, I guess I have something of a headcanon that Crane can be a pompous jerk under the right circumstances. And also drinks lots of black coffee, tending towards coffee breath at times.

What are you afraid of? Leave me one or two of your ~deepest fears~, and I might use it in an upcoming chapter! :D 3, m


	4. Behind The Scenes

It's good to be back...Thanks to** pandorasocks **for helping me find some creative inspiration when school was totally draining me.

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Crane stood, blinking hard and uncomfortably under a hot, bright light.

The crew of Shadow Stalkers had set up a makeshift studio on the lawns of the Asylum, with white plastic tents clumped together like wet paper in the morning dew.

He had arrived right on time, as Mr. Gold had requested; however, when he asked for Gold, the man was nowhere to be found. "He never shows up on set before eleven, if he shows up at all," said a man with a clipboard, scribbling furiously. "Crane, right?"

"_**Dr.**_ Crane, yes," he replied huffily.

"Great. Oooooo-kay, you're due in makeup." As he said it, Crane felt the acid in his stomach begin to boil. It would be a miracle if he didn't have an ulcer by the time this whole thing was over.

The man with the clipboard yelled out "Gertrude!" and a woman with thick blue-green and purple dreadlocks came running. She was wearing a long burgundy linen dress, a heavy black biker vest, and her arms were covered in tattoos of Care Bears and Chinese dragons.

"Dr. Crane, hello, I'm Gertrude," the woman introduced herself, putting an arm around his shoulder and steering him towards one of the tents. His skin crawled under her touch, uncomfortable with the proximity. Although at least she didn't smell as if she'd bathed in patchouli, which was a surprise.

She had him sit down in a chair, and set to work trying to get him camera-ready. But there wasn't much to do. He was already a fairly immaculate person, with not a hair or cufflink out of place. The best she could manage was to spritz a bit of water in his hair, comb it, and then dry it again. She then moved on to his makeup. Gertrude didn't talk much, but there was the occasional murmur about how clear his skin was. She used a concealer to hide the bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, then dusted a light finishing powder across his face. She applied a hint of mascara to his lashes (his eyes watered as he tried not to blink), and topped the whole thing off with an ever-so-slightly tinted lipgloss.

Crane looked blankly at himself in the mirror, catching a sudden whiff of hair product and coughing. Well, it could have been worse, he supposed. He stood, brushing imaginary powder off of his suit. Eager to leave, he offered Gertrude a firm, stiff handshake before turning in a somewhat robotic fashion and exiting the tent.

Despite his vanity in terms of academia, Crane never thought much about his appearance, save the clothes he wore. Growing up poor will do that to you. He was aware that to a certain percentage of females (and for all he knew, males), he registered highly on their sexual oscilloscopes as a potential mate. And, let's face it, they were justified, based on his I.Q. Alone. That's basic evolution. But he honestly never thought about himself like that, unless it suited his purposes. Perhaps it was simple, genuine disregard for his attributes, or maybe it was because at this point in his life he felt more himself behind a mask than he ever did face to face.

No time for a reverie, though, because Crane was now being dragged over to another tent. In this one, he was strapped up with mics, cords, wires and battery packs. A tiny, tinny speaker in his ear buzzed with a constant high note.

The man with the clipboard was back, appearing behind Crane's shoulder. If he had been the kind of man to jump, he would have then. But of course, he wasn't.

"Can we get you over here to go over a few things?" He didn't wait for Crane to answer before taking him into yet another small tent. As they walked Crane noticed a large table loaded down with tons of equipment, presumably for the lock-in that night. Cameras, night-vision attachments, and other gadgets he didn't recognize. _No Ouija board? _ he thought to himself smugly.

Another man stood there, with a short, closely trimmed beard and mustache. "This is Jared, one of our producers. Jared, this is Professor Jonathan Crane; he's the top psychologist at Asylum, and is going to be our resident Arkham expert for the day." Crane let the "professor" slide; he had, after all, started off as a psychology professor at Arkham University, where he had written the material he was going to be discussing today.

"Great to meet you, Crane." More handshakes and tight smiles. "So, here's the route we're planning on taking through the asylum today." He had a black and white printout of Arkham Manor's blueprints.

It looked like they intended to go in through the front door, hit the main hall, then go into areas like the "secret tunnel", the room Amadus Arkham's wife and daughter had been found dead, the electric chair Arkham had used to execute Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins afterwards, and the cell he was eventually imprisoned in as he descended into his own brand of madness. Not much different from what he had expected, and nowhere near the REAL secret tunnels beneath the manor, where he operated. Well, some relief in that.

The man continued: "So, you think you can cover all that?" Crane hadn't been listening, but at the directive, he turned towards the man, eyebrows raised, pursed lips, and a bored look in his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"When you do your tours and stuff, do you think you'll be able to say stuff about these places?"

"Of course." No question.

"Good, good. Gold got me a copy of your paper, good stuff. But, uh, do you think you could maybe...spice it up a little?"

"Spice it up?" Crane asked, incredulous.

"Well, have you ever, I dunno, seen anything weird around here?" Crane gave him a blank look. _Please. I work at an asylum. _"Ok, wrong question. Have you ever seen anything unexplainable? Footsteps with no one attached? Shadowy figures? Disembodied voices?"

"No." Flat, final. No, Crane had never seen any of those things, and he spent the majority of his time there. In fact, he doubted the existence of any sort of afterlife, as it were; a scientific improbability. Although there was no guarantee that some of his patients didn't see or hear those things...In fact, as he thought back on it, some of his subjects that had received light doses of his toxin claimed to have experienced such phenomena...Hmm...

"Well, maybe you could just...make something up, huh? Give our boys something to investigate, and our viewers something to jump at."

"How are they going to investigate something that isn't there?" he asked, irritated. He wasn't liking where this conversation was going. A snake in the grass about most things Crane may have been, but his academic integrity was sound. He had poured his heart and soul into that paper, as he did with his experiments in fear, and when he finally shared the results of his work to the world, whether through academic channels or via hostile takeover, he wanted everyone to know the extent of his prowess. No need to inflate his work. The proof was in the pudding, so to speak.

Jared winked and laughed, and then clapped Crane on the shoulder."Don't worry, we'll make something for them. We go to all these places, all around the world; they can't all be haunted. So we take their fancy equipment, and ours, and make it work. You know?"

"Oh, I see. Yes, yes I understand." Crane didn't know why he was grinding his teeth so hard, but he was. Arkham was his base, his home. All the fear and suffering in there, from its beginnings as an Asylum to each subsequent expansion, had become part of his own history. He had adopted it, and thrived in it. The asylum was good to him, providing him a safe, secret place to grow, and he was good to her in turn, feeding her weak minds and spirits (after, of course, he had harvested all he could from them.) To lie about his Asylum was an unimaginable offense. It not only invalidated all his previous work as a scholar, but offended him personally.

Oh yes, if they wanted something to be afraid of, he would give it to them.

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Sorry to be so long in posting this! My life has been beyond busy lately; I'm preparing to graduate from college, and take a trip to China in May. But yeah, I'm still alive and still writing this. As usual, I love reviews and feedback, and if you'd like to submit some of your fears, I may use them in the upcoming chapters! Thanks for reading!


	5. The Tour: Part 1

*TW: mentions of violence, including rape and murder, and inflicted on a minor.* This chapter turned out being a lot longer than I thought, so I'm cutting it in half. If you haven't guessed already, this will be heavily influenced by the graphic novel Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth, by Grant Morrison. Also, for future reference, the setting is somewhat based on the Arkham Asylum games, mashed up with the Asylum as we see it in the Nolanverse. I felt like it was about time to finally clarify that. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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Finally, the crew indicated they were ready to begin filming the tour. They started getting some "b-roll" footage, where they positioned Crane on the front steps of the building, filming him from a position where the cameraman was crouched on the ground, giving Crane a towering and formidable appearance. Crane, bored, looked straight at the camera light they indicated. "Good, very intimidating. I love it!" the director said. Crane bit the inside of his cheek.

As the director yelled "cut!" on the shot, three men dressed in all black came out of a tent, covered by umbrellas carried by three more men, who were themselves braving the misty air.

"Ah, perfect timing! Boys, this is Professor—er, Dr. Jonathan Crane, from up at the Asylum, He's going to be taking you on the tour. Dr. Crane, these are our boys."

The first man was short and slim. He had a high forehead, a somewhat beaky nose, watery eyes and a thin goatee. "Nate Toff," he introduced himself quietly. He gave Crane a small nod, and looked him directly in the eye as he proffered his hand for a shake. Crane took the hand in his, and met his eyes with an intentionally frosty gaze. Nate held it, steady and unfazed. Crane respected him for that, and hedged a nod back.

The next was a tall, burly man with more hair on his face than the top of his head. The man had shiny, warm eyes and a goofy smile. He clapped Crane's arm a little harder than he meant to. "Whoops! Hey, sorry, brother. Name's Adam Lovegood, nice to meetcha." Crane sensed his honesty, and immediately dismissed him. All brawn and no brains: Harmless.

The last of the three men at first glance looked younger: he was muscular and tan with spiked dark hair and a sulky teen's wardrobe. Though all three men were dressed in all black, this man sparkled with rhinestone skulls and cheap silver crosses around his neck, wrists and fingers. Those fingers were moving at a rapid speed across a fancy phone; from the angle, Crane could see he was on Twitter. He felt his lip curl in derision.

The man kept walking, not looking where he was going, until it seemed he would crash into Crane. At the last second, he looked up, only inches from Crane, and said, "Oh hey man." He pushed his sunglasses back onto his head and said, "I'm Zane Bishop, the face of Shadow Stalkers. You've probably heard of me." He gave a loud chuckle, at which Nate rolled his eyes and Adam looked embarrassed.

"All right, Zane, that's enough. Your fans can wait," said the director in the tone of a coddling parent. "Put your phone away. We need to get on with the tour. They'll all still be there later."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Gotta give the ladies something to watch at home, right?" Another hearty laugh from Zane.

"Ok fellas, let's start over here in front of the doors." The three men positioned themselves near Crane, who moved aside, standing out of the camera's reach. "Adam, a little to the right... Nate take a step back...Perfect. Now, we're going to film a little bit at a time, pause, and then continue. We'll cut everything in post later. So if you mess up, just keep going. You all know the drill," he said, gesturing at the cameras. "Ready? And... action!"

Adam and Nate stood on either side of Zane, arms crossed, flanking him as he spoke in a melodramatic fashion. "TONIGHT on SHADOW STALKERS, we travel to GOTHAM CITY to visit the ORIGINAL Arkham Asylum, where atrocious murders were committed, and some of the most dangerous criminals of this past century were treated. TRAGEDY has struck here time and again, and we aim to discover ALL of the hidden secrets of this monument to mental illness. Come with us, into the SHADOWS..."

A pause, before the camera swung around towards Crane, and Zane came over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Crane inhaled, preparing himself. He adapted the confident, oily manner he used in court, or while lecturing. A little bit of the Scarecrow.

Zane spoke again. "To show us around the old asylum, now known by its original name, Arkham Manor, we're joined by the new Arkham Asylum's head psychologist, Dr. Jonathan Crane, who is renowned for his knowledge on the building's history."

Crane gave a close-mouthed smile and gazed directly into the camera. He thought of the publicity: for the very first time, he would be broadcast right into peoples' homes. They would be seeing him and listening to him, rapt, in the glow of their television screens. The first time he would infiltrate minds on such a grand scale. This would be easier than he thought.

As the traveled through the asylum, stopping in this room or that, Crane told them (and by extension the audiences at home) the history of Arkham Manor, the first Arkham Asylum.

They started off in the restored bedroom of Old Mrs. Arkham. The room was pale yellow and draped in lace. A canopied four-poster bed was open, with the covers pulled back and a tray resting at the foot, as if the ill woman was out and about, but might return at any moment.

"Amadeus Arkham grew up in this mansion with his mother, his father having perished due to illness when he was young. Much of what we know about this period is from Arkham's journals, written in his adult years. Mrs. Arkham was already frail, and upon the loss of her husband, she quickly declined into poor mental health. One of her most common complaints was that she was being haunted by a giant bat. There was a notable incident in this room where young Arkham walked in on his mother eating beetles, when he was around ten or eleven. It seemed to make a marked impression on him, and later his mother's illness was one of the things that spurred him on in the medical profession. Interestingly enough, no evidence of bats ever was,or ever has been found in the manor, or in any part of the asylum."

Unavoidably, this provoked discussion off-camera about the recent vigilante, the man who dressed as a bat, whose crimefighting antics were filling Gotham's correctional system at unheard of rates. "I guess they checked for bats, but not Bat-men, eh?" said Zane. He looked around, expecting laughs, and getting few.

Crane ignored him, looking out the window, past Arkham Island's cliffs and buildings, at the skyline of mainland Gotham City. He wondered if the Bat was out there somewhere, and willed himself to feel his presence. _If you're out there, give me a sign..._nothing. Still, he felt uneasy. It was only a matter of time. Either the man who was the Bat would be here for him, or would be brought here to him, for treatment. And wouldn't he like to pick his brain...

"On to the next room."

As they walked down the hallways towards their destination, they let Crane talk and filmed him, with Zane, Nate, and Adam following along, looking deeply interested. "Amadeus Arkham eventually left home and continued with his studies on his own. After achieving a few degrees, he went to Metropolis, to the State Psychiatric Hospital. While there, he eventually wed his college sweetheart, Constance, and they had a daughter, Harriet.

"In the spring of 1920, however, Old Mrs. Arkham died, and Amadeus returned to the family home after the funeral. Mrs. Arkham apparently committed suicide, slitting her own throat with a razor. We know from his journals that the night after the funeral is when Arkham first made the commitment to stop, and prevent, the suffering of those like his mother."

They had reached the next stop on the Manor tour: the nursery. Crane slowly turned the big brass knob to the door and let it swing open. There were more big windows, almost floor to ceiling. In one corner was a rocking chair, padded and cushioned, with a plush but ancient looking blanket draped across it. There was a very old play pen that had been pushed in the corner as Harriet had grown older, and lots of toys and books scattered about. The centerpiece of the room was unquestionably a giant dollhouse. It must have been nearly five-and-a -half feet tall, a Victorian dream. Even though the house was all closed up, shadowy tiny furniture were visible between the windows.

Before Crane could even continue, Zane interrupted him: "Hey man, are there, uh...dolls in there? I don't do dolls."

Adam replied "I don't know, man, seems if there were going to be dolls somewhere, they'd be in a little girl's nursery."

"I'm not going in there, dude."

"Come on, man, you have to. You're Zane Bishop. The face of Shadow Stalkers. Remember? How's it gonna look if Zane Bishop can't face a room full of dolls?"

Zane peered into the room again, disgruntled. "I'll do it. Maybe. But I won't like it." He crossed his arms in a surly pout.

Crane waited a moment before he continued, to be sure they were finished being imbeciles."At the time, Arkham was treating a patient named Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins, who had been transferred from the Metropolis Penitentiary. Arkham was deeply moved by Mad Dog's case. Hawkins claimed to have been physically and sexually abused as a child, and said he received his orders from the virgin Mary, to mutilate the faces and genitals of his victims. Amadeus felt much compassion and pity for Martin.

"He finally begins the conversion of his home, Arkham Manor, into the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, in 1920. While the conversion was taking place, he and his family continued to live in the manor. In his journals, he describes a sense of "being back home", although his family seems to have had some difficulty adjusting. Harriet, his daughter, often complained of nightmares, which he attributed to Lewis Carroll tales, namely Alice in Wonderland. Ironic."

Crane paused. He felt uncomfortable discussing the irony in the death of a child, but only for a moment. It was over so fast that it might not have even happened. _That was a long time ago. No use __worrying about it now. It's not like it had anything to do with you, anyway. It's only a child._ However, the silence of the crew around him was deafening, as they sensed a change in the tone of the interview. This was the serious stuff, the reason they came.

"In the fall of that year, Arkham studied abroad, with Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist and psychologist, and also met Aleister Crowley, the occultist and mystic. Many of his later ideas about psychology and the human nature were informed and shaped by these travels and acquaintances; for example, he learned that beetles can be a symbol of rebirth, such as the Egyptian scarab, and therefore he deduced that the insects his mother consumed as a child were her way of trying to prolong her own life in a primative, subconscious way.

"Arkham arrived back home in time for Christmas, and seems to have spent the time after that in a sort of haze, describing a feeling of "deja vu". One day, he received a phone call, that Hawkins had escaped, and the authorities were inquiring into the criminal's state of mind. Arkham told them that he is highly dangerous, and continued going about his everyday life.

"Until April 1st, 1921. On this cold spring day, Arkham arrived home, finding it empty. He headed into the nursery to search for his wife and child, and found them." Crane pushed the door open a little wider. "Constance and Harriet had been brutally raped and murdered. Constance's body had been cut into pieces, and Harriet had been decapitated, with the name 'Mad Dog' cut into her torso, just above the pubic bone. Her head had been stashed inside the dollhouse, there."

Unsurprisingly, Zane audibly shuddered. Quiet Nate, however, made a move towards the door. Somberly, gingerly, he took a step into the room. Then another. His footsteps echoed on the wood, which let out tiny groans and sighs as he moved across it. Adam followed at a distance. Nate crouched down next to the dollhouse, hesitantly looking inside. Every curve of a tiny sofa or doll looked like an upturned nose, or the reflection of soft-lashed hazel eye.

"In spite of everything, the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane opened its doors officially on schedule, in November 1921."

* * *

To be continued in the forthcoming Part 2.

If you have any feedback, please feel free to send it to me; any reviews or suggestions are greatly appreciated.


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Batman Begins/Dark Knight, Horror, Humor