It was ever the delight for the self-proclaimed Master of Fear to be free to indulge in his experiments outside the confines of his cell. Although he had spent his incarceration cunningly planting seeds of fright within the minds of his doctors and cultivated the opportunity to break their minds completely, he could only be successful with a handful of Arkham staff that interacted with him. Now, Doctor Jonathan Crane was unfettered.

The night was a rainy one. The Joker had been recaptured by the Dark Knight, but took control of Arkham’s facilities, and Harley Quinn took over the security and freed all the inmates. And that was how he got here, released to both distract the vigilante and for the Joker’s general amusement. Neither mattered much to Crane. His sole motivation lay at the chance to intoxicate victims—including the Dark Knight—with his fear toxin.

After acquiring his gear, Crane stalked within the halls of the Medical Facility, where he had already tortured several orderlies and patients with his compound. His sickly thin form was exposed under his stitch hood and loose noose, skin unsettlingly close to his ribs. Perhaps he counted on it to be so disturbing. His burlap mask glowed to those exposed to hallucinations. And the source of those hallucinations was a gauntlet of syringes on his right hand filled with the yellow hallucinogen.

The lights flickered. There was an occasional but intentional override of the public address system by the Joker to taunt the Dark Knight. Otherwise, depending on where you were and when, you could hear loud sounds of crashing, fighting, shooting. But currently, the only sounds near Crane’s vicinity were the pleading and screams of horror inflicted by the Scarecrow. Because there was no Crane…only Scarecrow.