It's always best when the covers up, I am the pick in the ice,

No one truly knows how or why these things happen. Why Gotham City is a festering pus pocket of criminals, deranged lunatics with thematically rehearsed schticks, and those freaks. Those beyond the considering mortality, human ethics and reasoning for self centered goals and ambitions. Gross and plagued with diseases of the mind that makes anyone with an active braincell ponder what..Makes..Them..Tick.

The psychiatrist knows. He knows oh so tastefully well as the primary source that it makes them tick. What skitters through the dank crevices of their walls, between the folds of their clothing, and wedged in every wrinkle of their amygdala. It's what keeps you in arms length at all times.

"Always right where I need you to be." Scarecrow's voice scratched at chalkboard, joints twitching inside the orange polyester-cotton he hasn't bothered to remove. There were more important tasks at hand than changing into the right attire.

Do not cry out or hit the alarm, You know we're here til we die,

Life’s steppingstones are laid before you as a path to take; the ones you can see and those you don't. Hidden in the dirt below is a simple deduction of illusion of choice. You can move apartments, you can change jobs, change towns, but you come back every time. The fear nicks you more than a table corner, wakes you in a frenzy that no sedative cures. Fear makes everyone tick. This tick keeps you in Scarecrow’s clutches in a strange, limerence relationship that is never confirmed by either parties if it’s a parasite one can’t shake out, mad scientist and maddened assistant, doctor and experiment, or simply a blend of both parties trauma turned obsession.

"Much to catch up on, and one Bat to scare beyond oblivion." His lanky figure loomed, beady yet steady eyes focused on his favorite returning experimenting assistant—subject. Maddened more by the effects of the Asylum that’s hell bent on preventing anyone from leaving on good behavior; it was an effect that dampened the psychiatrist for some time until the familiar scents of toxins, cobweb dew, and fear induced sweat brings him to a "clarity". His version of clarity, however, was defined as a somewhat more refined and eerily calculating persona of The Scarecrow, and not the unmasked intellectual madness of ex-Doctor Jonathan Crane. A flurry swept Crane throughout the workshop, the clanks and bubbling of vials familiarizing back in your mind as goosebumps crept up. It's coming closer, experiment time.

Open up your skull, I'll be there Climbing up the walls