JLA Watchtower (Archive)

He was running down a dark, dark alley, the walls getting closer and closer together. He kept looking over his shoulder. Where was he? Where was he?? It was impossible to see his pursuer, but he could hear him well enough. He could hear the stomping footsteps, the growling, the roaring and the barking. This foul chimera that chased him would seen be upon him, and his fear toxin would do him no good. How could the alley be getting darker? Where had the moon gone? He should have been at a main road by now!

And then it went pitch black, and he was alone with the monster. He whimpered, and huddled into a corner, surrounded by trash, junkie needles, and dear lord, copies of his books. Sewage. Someone had urinated all over them. He picked one up, and moaned as it fell apart in his hand. He looked up as the beast suddenly came into view. A monstrosity. Part Bat, part Scarecrow, part his old enemy from school; Bo Griggs. "No." The behemoth reared over him, and screamed a keening noise.

It was too hot in his mask. Too claustrobic. Too dark. He had to get his mask off. But there was no gap between mask and skin. It was his face. In desperation, he took a scalpel from his pocket, and started carving at it. With cries, screams, and howls, his mask fell down beside him. The blood streaming down his chest, his head raw and without epidermis, he looked into the eyes of the beast. And saw-

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"No!" Crane wakes up, in a private ward. The bullet wound. He's in there because of that crazy old man shooting at him, and nearly hitting the boy. How long has he been out? "Where are my spectacles?" He tries to lift a hand to reach the cabinet beside him, fully expecting it to be handcuffed to the side of the bed. But no. It's free. "Odd." His spectacles found, and put on, he looks around. "No guards. A private ward, and no guards. The door's open..." Crane peers through the doorway as much as he can without getting out of bed. The anaesthetic was doing its job. No pain. "Hello? Is there anybody there?" No answer. He gets out of the bed, lowering the sides, and puts on the slippers that have been put there for him. It's dark in the corridor outside the room. Partly because of the nightmare, and partly because he doesn't want to be accused of trying to escape, he sits on the bed, watching the door. For a good hour. "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."

Nothing. Nobody comes, nobody answers his calls. "This will do me no good. I cannot, and will not wait." Crane tells himself this partly to abate his fears, which have suddenly come to the fore. "Autophobia. A fear of solitude. I am clearly getting used to having an armed guard nearby." He finally walks to the doorway, and peers around the corner. Light. Following the corridor with his hand, for it's truly dark, he reaches the lit office. A key in the door, a desk inside, and papers in a tidy pile. "They do say that curiosity killed the cat, but..." He unlocks the door, and enters the office. The top papers are his discharge forms, and surgery bills. Charged to Arkham Asylum, no less. He has a read of them, pushing his glasses down his nose.

"Due to the lack of care given by his armed guards, Jonathan Crane suffered a bullet wound in the attack at Borders in Gotham City. This attack was unprovoked, and in taking the wound he also saved a child's life, although this should be seen as peripheral to the wound itself. The injury has caused distress to previous wounds, also caused by gunshot, and from the fragments of metal that could not be extracted, the patient has been given a life expectancy of six months, during which time the metal will inexorably sever his spinal cord..." Crane sits down, open-mouthed. This can't be right. He reads it again. And again. "Thantophobia. A fear of death. I have never suffered from it..." He regains composure, and sees the name of the doctor who completed the form. "Dr Ari Organon... Strange name. I will think on that..." He goes to the next page. Another form, this one on Arkham headed paper. He sits back to read.

"Due to the lack of care given by his armed guards, his doctors, and consideration from fellow patients, coupled with his now short life expectancy, Jonathan Crane has been discharged to live the remainder of his life as a free citizen of Gotham City." Now Crane is taken aback. "Dr Organon signed this one as well..." The papers go on to say that he was transferred to a private facility in Organon's care. "But where is the building?" Crane gets up, and goes back to his room. His clothing is in the locker at the foot of the bed. No pain. Dr Organon must be an excellent surgeon, whoever he is. Or at least, an excellent anaesthetist. "I must get out of here, and see Nygma."