There's nothing to fear, but fear itself...and I'm here to hel-
The former doctor woke with a start. He had been riding, or at least imagining riding, away on the police horse screaming incoherently because of what that...bitch had done. There was just nothing else to call her. Jonathan Crane had never thought of tasers as particularly much fun, especially when turned against oneself, but when being hit in the face with them...
No, those things were nothing but pain.
Looked like that had only been a nightmare, at least. Or so Crane thought initially, as he glanced around the room, not quite sure what to make of it. It wasn't his apartment: the walls were too white, the room too small, and there was one bed and desk too many. He was only vaguely aware of the intercom, and was mostly tuning it out, although the words "stolen", "patients", and "breakfast" caught his interest. Not to mention his clothes...the former doctor would have never been caught anywhere, in any form, wearing them; at least, not if he could get away with it. It was a dull, depressing gray, not unlike much of Gotham, and there was a tacky yellow smiley face in the center of the shirt. It sat there, mocking him.
But this place certainly wasn't anywhere in Arkham, as Crane knew all too well. They never gave them desks in Arkham, and the cells were even smaller. The place was home to criminals, after all, and usually dangerous ones at that.
A dream within a nightmare perhaps?
Crane's face stung at the memory of the taser. It was far too vivid to be a dream, but it couldn't have possibly been true, could it? He brought a hand to his face, but was surprised to find that he did have something on his face; scar tissue on his cheek, no less. It was smaller than he may have expected, considering his entire face had felt on fire, but it was definitely a scar. But regardless of how much Crane wanted to know why he had a burn scar when that couldn't have possibly happened -- after all, if it hadn't been a dream, then he would have taken care of Ms. Dawes somehow before the Batman managed to show up -- the main question remained Where on Earth was he?
It had to have been a mental institution of some sort...that part he was fine with. He'd always felt most at home at Arkham, anyway. What he didn't understand was why he couldn't remember how he got here, or even who had admitted him. Or even better...where this place was, and what it was called.
Of course, before he could get up and begin looking into the matter, the nurse popped in. She was dressed in white, just like the walls, and had a burly orderly with her. But her smile annoyed him the most. She was obviously attempting to be cheery for his sake, but he'd worked around people like her long enough to tell when the smiles were fake. This was one of those times.
no subject
The former doctor woke with a start. He had been riding, or at least imagining riding, away on the police horse screaming incoherently because of what that...bitch had done. There was just nothing else to call her. Jonathan Crane had never thought of tasers as particularly much fun, especially when turned against oneself, but when being hit in the face with them...
No, those things were nothing but pain.
Looked like that had only been a nightmare, at least. Or so Crane thought initially, as he glanced around the room, not quite sure what to make of it. It wasn't his apartment: the walls were too white, the room too small, and there was one bed and desk too many. He was only vaguely aware of the intercom, and was mostly tuning it out, although the words "stolen", "patients", and "breakfast" caught his interest. Not to mention his clothes...the former doctor would have never been caught anywhere, in any form, wearing them; at least, not if he could get away with it. It was a dull, depressing gray, not unlike much of Gotham, and there was a tacky yellow smiley face in the center of the shirt. It sat there, mocking him.
But this place certainly wasn't anywhere in Arkham, as Crane knew all too well. They never gave them desks in Arkham, and the cells were even smaller. The place was home to criminals, after all, and usually dangerous ones at that.
A dream within a nightmare perhaps?
Crane's face stung at the memory of the taser. It was far too vivid to be a dream, but it couldn't have possibly been true, could it? He brought a hand to his face, but was surprised to find that he did have something on his face; scar tissue on his cheek, no less. It was smaller than he may have expected, considering his entire face had felt on fire, but it was definitely a scar. But regardless of how much Crane wanted to know why he had a burn scar when that couldn't have possibly happened -- after all, if it hadn't been a dream, then he would have taken care of Ms. Dawes somehow before the Batman managed to show up -- the main question remained Where on Earth was he?
It had to have been a mental institution of some sort...that part he was fine with. He'd always felt most at home at Arkham, anyway. What he didn't understand was why he couldn't remember how he got here, or even who had admitted him. Or even better...where this place was, and what it was called.
Of course, before he could get up and begin looking into the matter, the nurse popped in. She was dressed in white, just like the walls, and had a burly orderly with her. But her smile annoyed him the most. She was obviously attempting to be cheery for his sake, but he'd worked around people like her long enough to tell when the smiles were fake. This was one of those times.