Everybody's out on the run tonight

[restingstitchface]

WHO: Daisy, Watson, Wayne and Crane.
WHERE: Various.
WHEN: 2-3 November.
WHAT: Pursuit.
WARNINGS: Moderate violence.

[The trail hasn't gone cold. And following the tracker shows Crane avoiding his well-trodden places. He's avoiding in his house in Nonah. He isn't strolling into the Castile. He doesn't bother visiting them both. He spends as many hours as he can in solitude and waits for people - imPort or otherwise - because he's far more threatening in person and he isn't running away.

He's no coward. He's using his intellect. Perfectly acceptable when he does it, that.]

Comments

[the_caped_crusader]

[It's time for your appointment, Mr. Wayne. He steps into the derelict psychiatric office imagining it to be the perfect representation of Jonathan Crane's decaying mind. This place, in any form, must have made him feel powerful over anyone who stepped through its doors, even as cobwebs festered in the corners and dust gathered along the counters and furniture. The office itself isn't very large, but the door to the office in the back is closed, as though to give its current patient privacy.

He doesn't knock, but opens the creaking door slowly to step inside. Quietly, he steps past the threshold, and... takes a seat opposite Crane, both hands on the armrest, eyes almost glowing in the ominous darkness of the room, illuminated only by the small desk lamp on Jonathan's desk.]

[restingstitchface]

[He had researched his post-graduate at a desk like this; worked in an office like this; lectured students sitting opposite him like this; and he had disciplined Arkham staff who had broken protocol. Now he sits on the other side of the desk. Opposite a man more threatening than himself. And his presence here threatens everything this room stands for. He crosses his right leg and rests his hands on his knee. It makes him want to cross his ankles, too, but he can't show himself so weak.]

Let's start with the cliches, then. How are you?

[the_caped_crusader]

[He sits across from him quietly, the only sound between them the creaking of the old walls and the dull throbbing in his ears from his broken ribs. The shadows from every corner seem to pull into him, making him appear even larger in the otherwise normal chair. He takes a long moment to answer.]

Tired.

[restingstitchface]

[He moves his fingers; an itching to get his notebook before he remembers he doesn't have it. Though his posture doesn't change as the shadows draw together. He's used to the dark places; he goes visiting them now and then, when he's tired of his hatred of everyone and everything else.

It's the Batman's control over his own hatred that he despises. Because he, underneath it all, despite his intellect, doesn't have it.]

Tired. Psychologically or physically? [His voice is sharper now. Inquisitorial. He doesn't mollycoddle.] Why are you tired, Bruce?

[the_caped_crusader]

[If Crane expects a response, even the slightest knee-jerk reaction to his real name, it isn't there. All he'll get is the stoic, even reserve of a man who expects anything.]

I'm tired of us. Of this.

[A pause.]

How long have we been doing this? You, and the version of me that you know?

[restingstitchface]

[Apparently Crane doesn't like that lack of reaction, as he presses his lips. He is clueless about gaining some traction. It could be so much fun to exploit the answers Bruce was looking for; but what was the point? His intellect was failing him.]

Ten years. To some extent. Eight were spent in hiding after he murdered Harvey Dent.

Allegedly.

[There is the briefest expression of annoyance on his face. He had never believed those accusation; so out of character. Then again, he couldn't have done much. He had been transferred to Blackgate when he should have been receiving proper medical care.

But ten years off thirty four. That's far too young.]

He - you - retired. Obviously gave your place to another. But it's not the same.

[He's also bitter, can't you tell?]

[the_caped_crusader]

It's been twenty, for you and me. No hiding. No retiring.

Whatever you think you can do? You've already done it. And I'm still here.

[A pause.]

But it makes me think that there's one thing you've never done. You've never tried. To be better. To use what is undoubtedly a brilliant mind to heal rather than destroy, and because of what? What is your reason? To make the world pay for what happened to you? To make them experience the same thing?

Face your fears or be destroyed by them.

Because that's what you think you did, in some way, a long time ago. [But he didn't, he ventures a guess, as much as Bruce did his own.] But have you ever wanted to make it so that those people never had to feel that fear in the first place? That there is place inside of you that wouldn't be better without it.

[restingstitchface]

[The suggestion isn't an unfamiliar one; the idea of trying to direct him by complimenting his intelligence. Most doctors had given up trying. People didn't like to be reminded of losing their friends and homes, bless. He places his hands on the armrest, leaning forward.

He isn't so blind as to miss the difference when Batman offers the compliment. Bruce doesn't speak much; doesn't offer nonsense that means little. He sits straight and slides his fingers together in his lap, releasing his aggression. The more he thinks about the texture of his skin and the cold temperature inside the room, the more mindful he feels; and the calmer he becomes. He almost considers accepting it, almost.

But despite the logic he sees in accepting, he just can't trust the motive behind it.]

Of course not. I don't make mistakes. [Accepting he makes them is partly the problem.] Do you think I cannot stand by my own decisions? That I cannot understand my own mind? Don't insult me, Batman. you talk about me trying to help people - but you know that wouldn't be fair, would it?

[The part of him that views everyone as complicit hardly wants them to profit from his suffering. They can learn like he had to.]

[the_caped_crusader]

I didn't say you couldn't make your own decisions, or that you didn't know exactly what you're doing, I asked you if you ever considered doing it differently.

I don't know what happened between you the me you know, but I've tried. I'm trying. It's why I'm sitting here now, with you, because I wanted to ask you.

[He reaches up and presses a small button behind the ear of the cowl that unlatches it and allows him to remove it.]

Face to face. I had to try.

[restingstitchface]

Of course you did.

[He sounds furious; though he very much tries to hide it. He doesn't speak for a while, doesn't move. It's an attempt to keep himself controlled - he can only imagine how amusing it is that Bruce believes he benefits from helping others; everyone does, but it's so selfish and most refuse to face that, let alone admit it. Underneath this thinking, his fingers are gripping each other far more tightly.]

But yes. I've considered what I'm doing; I made deliberations before I even started. [His eyes wander to the ceiling.] You'll have to make allowance for my skepticism - but I don't see what I'll be getting out of this little arrangement you're going for, whatever it is.

[Well, he does - get him mental help, keep him under watch, out of trouble - but it doesn't stop what happened in his life, does it?]

It's all pointless. Why do you ask me to reconsider my direction? What's in it for you?

[If they "talk" it would end up an emotional vomiting of every rotten and diseased weakness. It is his right to choose, his secret. His control; the one thing given to him that can't be taken away.]

[the_caped_crusader]

My parents died in front of me when I was nine. At fourteen I swore that I would do something about it, and I've been living with that intent for twenty eight years. There have been a lot of times when I've questioned what I'm doing. If I'm making a difference. If it's worth it, in the end. I remember the failures more than the successes. I know now that I won't stop.

[He pauses.]

Maybe it's too late for you and me. For whatever we've been through, this is who we are, for better or worse. It's a distinct possibility. But you ask me to see someone with so much potential to add something good to a world that told him there was only bad and not do something about that and I can't, Jonathan.

You want to know what's in it for me? Nothing. But it's possible that everything is in it for you.

[restingstitchface]

[For this private moment, he chooses to say nothing.

Bruce has put all his effort into speaking. Opened himself and revealed one glimpse of his fear. To say he doesn't appreciate the struggle would be a lie; but he isn't at all surprised when he suspects Bruce is holding back, and sighs in disappointment.]

Don't you realize how illogical you sound? If it's too late for me, I would harbor no potential. It would be impossible that everything is in it for me; my time would have ran out.

[It would be impossible for him to get love from his mother's mother and his great-grandmother; but that was already true, and he'd given up on that a long time hence.]

Something is in it for you. Can you tell me what that is?

[It matters not if Bruce is telling the truth; Crane thinks he's a liar.]

[the_caped_crusader]

You're hearing what you want to hear, Jonathan. I said it's a possibility. In the end, the choice is yours, not mine. Can you change? If I didn't think you couldn't, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. If I'm being honest, even I have my doubts that you can.

Maybe you want to think I'm doing this for my own benefit. Whatever helps you sleep at night. But whether you change or you don't, my nights stay the same. Crime doesn't just look like a burlap sack to me, Jonathan. It's different every day. Maybe you know even more then I do about the evil in men's hearts, and that puts you in the unique position to change it.

[acclimatized]

[ all it took was one gruff voicemail message for batman to enlist john's help in hunting down scarecrow.

his first port of call was the office where crane worked when he was still regarded as a respectable imPort doctor. not that he ever saw him as one back when they were acquaintances; psychiatrists had always made him feel deeply uncomfortable and jonathan crane was no different. maybe that's why mary shared her concerns with him, back when she was here and working alongside him. while she had accepted the name mary watson, traces of AGRA remained and john was grateful for the notes she left behind.

Unfortunately, it was one that led him to a dead end. a small psychiatric office that had been boarded up and abandoned long ago. obviously it hadn't managed to shake off the stigma attached to its former tenant. after that, he went on the internet, looking up laboratories within the vicinity that he may have used before attacking raina and the ceremony.

armed with a small notebook full of addresses and a gun nestled against the small of his back, he went out into the night to check them out. by the fourth address, john thinks he just might be in luck. how likely is an unlocked door at this time of night? ]

[restingstitchface]

[John would come to a warehouse that had once served as a laboratory. There was nothing of note; the rain pitted dismally over a broken line in the guttering. Like Crane's office it had been boarded up and abandoned long ago. Crane had continued visiting both for a time. But that had been in the past when the pressure had cooled down. And he hadn't visited to clean it of dust but evidence. The electricity had been cut leaving both men to come through the dark; to a room that was only a few pieces of furniture; a swivel chair, a table and a sleeping bag, rolled and nestled in the corner.

The noise is kept to a minimum, and there's no light from inside as Crane moves around under minimum light. He had left a window open to have some moonlight. He continues moving something around inside that room. Perhaps it's the table. And there may even be a couple of muttered groans; a man like him shouldn't be sleeping rough like this, doing manual labour.]

[acclimatized]

[ john slips quietly into the building and closes the door. despite his efforts to remain discreet, he grimaces when it clangs shut behind him. he shakes the rain out of his hair, squinting at the darkness as he fumbles in his jacket for his torch. he can hear something in this warehouse; whether the groaning belongs to junkies using this as a place as a come down or the person he's looking for, he can't say for certain.

he carves a path to the only door he can see and waits, listening for the noises that are coming from within the room. whoever's in there, it sounds like they're dragging something around. either he's found crane or stumbled upon a murder. regardless, he takes out his gun and tries the door handle. ]

[restingstitchface]

[Click. Crane's hands drop from the table he's moving; he swipes his briefcase - mindful of its leather handle - and squashes the uneven curiosity fluttering in his stomach. The lack of tenseness in his body and the missing panic in the air. He should be frightened; but he isn't and it comes out in his lack of respect when he sees, illuminated by the torch, John's face.]

Do you need that gun?

[His voice is too soft to be biting.]

If you're as smart as you think you are, you shouldn't.

[acclimatized]

I'm very tempted.

[ john's voice is equally as soft. also, water is wet and grass is green. he has no intention of shooing crane. he isn't a cold-blooded murderer and this isn't what batman asked him to do. crane might not have been the one holding the gun last august, but he is culpable for the bullet that ripped through his leg and the victims back in alabama. he's just here to ensure he faces justice.

he doesn't lower his gun yet. he does, however, eye the briefcase and nods at the table. ]

Put the briefcase down over there, please.

[restingstitchface]

If you were going to shoot, you would have done it.

[He passes by the chair and lays the briefcase on the table. He is happy to behave and rely on his intelligence to get him through this situation. His thumbs work under the locks and snap them open.]

The contents won't be particularily important to you.

[acclimatized]

[ john doesn't dignify his remark with an answer. once crane's stepped away from the table, john sidles over and uses the barrel of the gun to sift through his belongings. he looks for some sort of chemical agent or gas canister, but finds his clothes, a classical CD and a book instead. ]

Seriously? You're on the run and you're lugging this about with you?

[ he holds up his copy of ulysses with a raised eyebrow. ]

[restingstitchface]

[There is the briefest expression of annoyance before Crane drowns it. He hates this man; he doesn't want to show it. But that way he's handling his book is making him press his lips, stand tall, push back his shoulders. He clasps his hands at his back and tilts his head in a curious motion, as if to raise a question.

He forces himself to keep control and breathes calmly before answering.]

I want something to read. Is that a problem?

[acclimatized]

[ john's lips curve into a lopsided smile when he notices how crane's demeanour changes. just touching his book must be driving him mad. it wasn't too long ago that they were both acting friendly to each other. john always knew, deep down, his change of character wasn't permanent. he just wishes his suspicions weren't realized at the cost of his latest victims. ]

Nope. You'll have plenty of time when they arrest you again.

[ he places the book back in the briefcase and closes it with a soft click. ]

I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm really not.

[restingstitchface]

[He pretends not to hear John's disappointment. He doesn't speak about it, and slides his fingers around his briefcase's handle and hauls it off the table. To say he isn't shamed by another man rifling through his belongings - a lie. But a lack of privacy has been present throughout his life. He'd been caught lying a couple of times. Taught a lesson. Told to pray because you've got the touch of the devil about you, boy.]

Do you think I really care whether you're surprised or not? [His eyes aren't quite focused enough on John. He's still thinking about being in the aviary. Surrounded by birds.] I suppose I should be happy you had the insight to realize it was a game. People today - they really don't know how to think.

[acclimatized]

[ now he's satisfied there isn't anything crane can use against him in the briefcase, john puts the gun away. he has never been able to consciously control what his body adapts to; it's just been luck half the time. and unless his body decided the rain outside was a threat, then he should be safe if crane does have anything up his sleeve. ]

Actually, I was talking about the book. I've never read it and I still don't know what it's about, but I've heard that it's difficult to read. So yeah, I'm not surprised it's something you'd run off with. [ he wets his lips. ] But I always knew you were going to go off again. It was just a matter of time. I don't know why... maybe you're addicted to it.

[restingstitchface]

[Addicted? The word, and its implications of how wretched he is, how he's losing his mind, send a harsh jolt down his spine. He closes his eyes and attempts to affect some calm on the deep shaking beginning in his shoulders; to seize those nerves that would let it spread outwards - a visible display of his frustrations. But his calm itself is a sign of his anger.]

No. I am in control of my behavior; I simply have a problem with the behavior of other people. Now, why don't you take a seat?

[The doctor is in and he's listening. Pathetic man who thinks he has power.]