Gotham City has been, quite literally, torn apart. It was a single, solitary act by Gotham's very own King of Comedy, the Joker. Alongside his bombshell assistant Dr. Harleen Quinzel, AKA: Harley Quinn, the Joker not only escaped from Arkham Asylum, but succeeded in releasing every prisoner within its walls. The facility, in the ensuing chaos, was utterly destroyed. What was once a state of the art prison for the criminally insane is now just a pile of smoldering ashes, and with its passing, so entered Gotham into her darkest hours.
So where do you stand? Do you fight for evil? There are plenty of Supervillains waiting for your allegiance. Do you fight for yourself? The fate of Gotham will be yours to control. Or do you fight for good, alongside the Batman and his Allies? Only one thing is clear, it seems. No matter what your choice, there can be No. Escape.
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 24 Location: Gotham Karma: 4
Jonathan Crane [Scarecrow] « Thread Started on Jun 25, 2008, 4:27pm »
Dr. Jonathan Crane / The Scarecrow
Sex: Male.
Age: 31.
Height: 5'9".
Weight: Estimate 140some lbs.
Occupation: Psychologist/Psychiatrist at Arkham. Former Professor at Gotham University.
Affiliation/Faction: Hugo Strange. Carmine Falcone.
Appearance
Physical Appearance:
Crane is smallish and bony, especially in his younger years. He has high cheekbones and colder, blue eyes that are dimmed by glasses. His clothing appearance used to be shabby and ragged, when he would spend all his money on books instead of clothing, but with the increased paychecks of being in Arkham, Crane has adapted to a more pristine and pressed "Doctor" attire, taking pride in his immaculate and controlled look.
Characterization
Backstory:
Crane began as a troubled youth, abused by his religiously fundamentalist grandmother. Both biological parents were practically non existent during his childhood. While in school, Crane was teased and bullied for his lanky appearance and bookish, shy qualities. He was given the nickname "Scarecrow". Crane as a child created an imaginary friend, who he named "Scarecrow". Scarecrow represented all the pent up frustrations and the self that Crane wanted to become. Scarecrow was almost without fear, and more importantly, thrived on the fear of others. Soon, it became clearer to Jonathan that Scarecrow was becoming more than just an imaginary "friend". Scarecrow became more hostile to Crane himself, scolding him on his weakness. Scarecrow, as it were, became a "personality" of Crane himself during adolescence, and Crane willingly gave his mind over to Scarecrow every now and then, all traits of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Because of Scarecrow and being bullied as a child, Crane became fascinated with the psychology of fear, mostly to act as an aggressor and to get back at those who had shunned him or made fun of him during his adolescence or at the academy. Crane graduated from medical school and became a psychology professor at G.U., but his lectures consisted mainly of fear psychology, and the power of the mind over the body; thus his teaching methods were particularly frowned upon by higher staff and feared by students. Crane soon moved from teaching over to Arkham Asylum, where, with his degrees in Psychiatry and Psychopharmacology, he began taking patients. His methods are highly controversial, focusing on the use of therapy in conjunction with experimental psychopharmaceudical drugs.
I can and most likely will play Jonathan Crane as just evolving into the Scarecrow. The Scarecrow is just emerging into his own fully separate persona. Scarecrow has established himself, he's just in early development. The fear toxin is just beginning to be brought into regular use by Scarecrow after the experiments conducted by Crane were successful. No one knows his alter ego is the Scarecrow yet. He has not tangoed with the Bat. The generation of fear is coming soon.
Scarecrow, though mostly accepting of Crane, views the "host personality" as weak, and imperfect. Scarecrow hopes to take over Crane completely.
Powers/Abilities:
With Crane's help, Scarecrow resurfaced with a plan to create a "fear toxin", a vaporous drug that when inhaled, would create a vivid delusion that one's greatest phobia had manifested. Scarecrow's signature attack is the use of this fear toxin. Over the years Crane has developed more than one kind of toxin. There are toxins that are specified towards specific phobia, i.e; fear of snakes, fear of falling, and then, fear of loss, fear of failure. Then there is specific toxins that create paranoia, despair, and hysteria, all "sisters" to fear. The main, "prototype" toxin acts on the "flight or fight" response of the human nervous symptom, recreating all the physiological and psychological attributes that are common to that response. It, produces a "bad trip" exaggerating the horrific elements of reality but not producing any specific phobias. The reaction is general "fear". Then, lastly, there is a toxin that is in condensed form, that will completely sever the victim's mind from reality, causing a permanent state of induced schizophrenia-like symptoms. This is used as a last resort. All toxins react like a delirient, not a hallucinogen. The victim cannot distinguish reality from illusion.
A new development is Crane's ability to evoke fear or frighten to death through the use of his words, demonstrating considerably knowledge of the inner workings of the human psyche and fear psychology.
RP Sample: ((Note: This is huge. I've worked on Crane for years, and this is the product. If this is too novelesque for you, don't fret. My reply posts aren't usually near as long. All of Scarecrow‘s speech are in italics, Jonathan out loud is plain.))
"Jonathan.." His eyelids opened. He was staring at his knees. They had been pulled up to his chest, and his arms were wrapped around his legs protectively, fingers digging into his thighs until his knuckles were white.
Who had called his name? His eyes stared around the room, wildly looking for the vessel the voice had come from. He was met with silence, and nothing. Somewhere a clock ticked, counting second after second as they were woven into the fabric work of time. And again, "Jonathan!"
The voice was urgent this time, a hushed whisper that seemed to echo, bouncing off the walls around him. The walls of his mind. Crane sucked in a breath, tucking his lip underneath his canines and biting down until his skin reddened and he could feel the blood pump underneath his teeth. Scarecrow... he always was the one to wake Jonathan Crane up. He spoke out loud, his voice raspy, and coupled with the darkening circles under his eyes, proved his sleep deprivation.
"What is it?"
What is it? You should be more grateful sounding, Dr. Crane. I am the one that has been helping you rise to the top of Arkham Asylum's staff, after all. Soon enough, with my guidance and installments of persuasion, you'll be head of Arkham.
Crane sniffed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He pretended to ignore Scarecrow, to ignore the fabricated part of himself that had shattered off into it's own separate entity.
Pay. ATTENTION. Jonathan! The severity of the tone crashed through Jonathan's head and left his ears ringing. He jumped, startled, and his incisors bit down too hard on the inside of his cheek, severing a small, jagged abrasion. He coughed, and spit something foul onto the back of his hand, dark red, and tasting of copper. The fucker had made him bleed.
"I am paying attention, you fuck! What is it exactly that you think it would be best for me...for us to do, then?" Crane had stood up, pacing about the carpet on his office, tugging at his hair and his clothes like a madman, willing to say anything to get the voice to stop being so harsh, for his mind to stop being so cruel. The ringing in his ears ceased, and he stopped in front of a full length mirror.
I want you to become us, Jonathan. You're too soft on your patients. I'm always the one who has to save your reputation for you, who gets to enjoy the pleasure that instilling fear brings. Be more like me Jonathan. You already are. You just don't recognize it yet.
Something was shimmering around Crane. He brought his fists to his eyes and rubbed furiously, thinking he was having vision trouble with his glasses laying a broken mess on the desk behind him. He lowered his fists, but all the rubbing had made the shimmering more clear, and behind him in the mirror, wavering like television static was Scarecrow.
He looked like Jonathan. He was Jonathan Crane in body, and in mind. But…there were things that were.. out of place about him. The blues of Scarecrow's eyes were paler, more icy. More dangerous. Cuts and abrasions littered his face, and crept up his neck, peeking out from underneath the collar of his shirt. His tie was gone, replaced by a rough looking hangman's noise, the strands scratchy to the touch and Jonathan reached up a finger to stroke over the knot of the noose. He peered closer, squinting, pressing a palm flat against the mirror. Straw poked out from the cuts and lacerations on Scarecrows body. Straw was everywhere, he seemed to bleed straw. It protruded from underneath his cuff links, from the button holes in his white doctor's coat. His clothing was tattered and worn looking, even his skin was used looking, cracked here and there between cuts.
Jonathan smiled at Scarecrow, and Scarecrow smiled back. "Alright. I'll be more like you.." He closed his eyes and turned around from the mirror, and he heard laughter, soft and dark receding from the front of his mind to bury itself in the back.
"Dr. Crane, please report to room 127A." Jonathan tilted his head upwards, staring at the intercom like it was an annoying insect, buzzing into his personal space. Oh yes, the new patient. He gathered case files, a notepad and a pen, straightened his tie and stepped out of the room.
The hallway was narrow, hard enough for people to walk comfortably side by side, and the lighting was dim. The walls were white, or at least they had once been. They attempted to keep them clean and pearly with an array of cleaning instruments and solutions, but the cleaning staff had given up after the "grime" had returned to gray the walls nightly. The place wanted to be dim.
As he walked, the moans of the demented met his ears. The doors were see through plastic, this wing confined to the advanced psychotic. Surveillance cameras littered the walls, and were watching constantly in the patient's rooms. He approached room 127A slowly, twisting the doorknob open.
Dr. Genewright was standing next to an orderly, speaking in lowered tones that sank directly to the wall and did not register to his ears at all. Acknowledging that Crane had come in, he nodded once to the orderly, and then stepped backwards. "Dr. Crane, I have here the paperwork. I'm sure you know what and where to sign by now."
Dr. Crane smiled, taking a step forward. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Scarecrow was singing nursery rhymes.
A sharpness to the curve of the letter "J", a dark smudge where the knuckle of his thumb had dragged across the ink, a black blot, where the pen had bled ball point blood onto the white of the paper, and it was stark and permanent. The signature read “Dr. Jonathan Crane". It was an agreement to take on a new patient, and to the man sitting in a closed off sound proof room with no windows and no surveillance camera, it was as good as signed permission for his execution.
"You wait and see Dr. Genewright. Once I have a chat with that man there, it will be clear enough that he is insane, and thus can and will be a danger to himself, as well as the community." Crane capped the pen and surveyed the darkening ink that seeped into the tiny crevices of his fingerprint. "I'll see the patient now."
He stood, gathering his papers into a manila folder and exited the office room to enter the room of his newly acquired patient. The patient, a one Mr. Abaforth sat in a green plastic chair, both hands flat, palm facing downwards onto the table laid in front of him. He didn't look up as Crane entered. He stared at the institutionalized blank of the table top and spoke directly to it. "Why are you doing this, you bastard? I'm a Doctor, like you. You were in the conference...I remember you there. I was going to critique your methods, the way you handle your patients. What you do, what I think you do to them, it's cruel. It's inhumane...and you'll be caught."
Crane took his time, holding the folder fat with papers, hovering the bulk over the table for a few moments, and then let the folder smack downwards. Abaforth jumped, and Crane grinned. "Why? You're asking motives now, aren't you...well, let me ask you your motives. What prompted you to attack another human being at the conference, hm? What might be your motive for such an unusual display of hostility?"
Abaforth seemed to choke for a few moments. Crane could see the wheels beneath his skull churning, trying to bring forth images and memories that had receded into the back fabric work of his waking consciousness. He almost laughed, in spite of himself.
"You, you did something to me, Crane. You and that... that mask." Abaforth was shaking visibly now, his bottom lip, fat and a dark purplish black of long ago congealed blood quivering unpleasantly. "You made me do it.. the mask, some drug. You drugged me you bastard!" His voice was rising to a childish pitch, hopelessness evident on his face in dark blotches, blood pumping through his veins. He was upset. This was normal. The first part of recovery was recognizing when you were upset.
"And how does this make you feel, Abaforth?" Crane leaned forward, the icy steel of his eyes boring into the man's. Fingers were latching onto his briefcase's handle, unlatching the gold clasps and prying the case open. A mask, seeming nothing more than a used rag of a potato sack bag with a noose tied around it poked from underneath some papers. Crane held it up, observing it fondly before pulling it over his head. "Are you afraid? You made the mistake of trying to criticize me. And by doing this, you must pay the consequences. The motives? What's in it for me? Business, my friend. Business. If you ruined my reputation as a respected psychiatrist, I might be suspected. Arkham might become suspicious of my methods of psychotherapy and my prescriptions for experimental psychopharmaceudical drugs...By disposing of you, I gain business. You are my patient. I am your doctor."
Abaforth let out a choked sob and began to inhale. Crane's fingers dug into the lining of the briefcase, releasing a trigger for something... A sharp hissing sound, and a gust of off white gas spilled towards Abaforth's face, and he gasped, wrenching backwards in his seat.
For Abaforth, the world has begun to spin. Colors morphed to grays tinged with red, blood red. The walls began to bleed, the syrupy liquid pooling downwards, seeping from the cracks in the ceilings and onto the surgical cleanliness of the Asylum floor. His face contorted in horror, he fell with a thunk out of his chair, backing away from the blood that had begun to trickle upwards from the tiles. The mask over Crane's face was smiling, grinning like only a Cheshire demon could grin, dark red arterial blood draining from the eye sockets, from the mouth as Crane laughed and laughed.. Abaforth's nightmare had begun and he was blubbering wildly, clawing at his arms and shirt and face as he too began to bleed, from pores, from fabric, from everywhere.
Crane left Abaforth screaming, orderlies rushing in to sedate the man. He looked up, just latching his briefcase closed and faced Dr. Genewright.
"He must be committed. I'm sorry to say. He'll be under my care now."
Burlap itched. Scarecrow didn't mind the texture. It was kind of soothing, actually. The fabric was rough as he slid the mask over his head, and he could feel the scratch of the mask's surface over the abrasions and lacerations that made his face unrecognizable almost. The cuts made him looked shattered, like the image projected in a broken looking glass.
The hum of the computer and the soft man made glow of the monitor in front of him made the little shadows and hollows on his face more prominent, more ghastly. The eye holes and the mouth hole in the mask were a void of black, nothing human underneath. At least that's what it looked liked to Carmine Falcone. A video conversation seemed safe enough, stream of data embedded cleverly on a private network of computers, linked and linked, again and twice over, to ensure privacy. Scarecrow still wanted to wear his mask.
Even on a screen, he judged him. Carmine's face was blank, a cigar hanging out of the left corner of his mouth, the tiniest stream of smoke stringing upwards.
A small ear piece filtered Falcone's voice to Scarecrow, stuck in the shell of his ear like some James Bond movie, or a secret agent, or just someone with a secret.
"So, it's a deal then, Crane?"
Scarecrow corrected him. " Scarecrow."
"Right, whatever. In exchange for my help getting your fear toxin into Gotham, you'll get some of my goons out of prison, you understand?"
"Yes."
Minimalistic conversation. Sketchy lighting. The best way to conduct underground deals.
"Good. Did you get the sample toxin I sent you?"
"I got a stuffed bunny rabbit."
Scarecrow looked downwards to a white, innocent looking stuffed rabbit that sat in his lap. It's eyes were white and black plastic, it's mouth gaping in a wide red smile, or, it might've been a scream. Creepy fuckers. Even to Scarecrow.
"That's it then. You have it right there. You get Zsasz out by the end of this week, and I'll ship out the rest of the toxin to the warehouse we indicated."
Falcone's voice began to waver with digital static. Pumped into Scarecrow's ear it sounded like nothing out of the ordinary. Just static that he was used to hearing in his mind late at night, when both voices, Crane and Scarecrow, were silent. A little message popped up on the user interface to inform him that the video conversation had ended. Scarecrow looked down at the rabbit, and dug his fingernails underneath the edges of the plastic eye and pulled. Pink thread unraveled along with a thin bit of red string, reminding him of blood and flesh and melted peppermints. Inside the eye socket was a small phial, electric green, and full to the top.
Zsasz… homicidal maniac. Room 367B, committed a week ago, when Crane himself had transferred him to the secure ward in inner Arkham just before his indictment. Zsasz worked for Falcone, as a hit man of sorts. Sociopath tendencies laced with a rather odd way of settling his victims, he even gave Crane the creeps. When asked how he would dispose of the cadavers he had picked off so cleanly, Zsasz would reply with a simple "By eating them.", and would grin, showing tiny yellowed sharp teeth. Crane had suspected he had filed them to achieve that shark grin, and had worn contacts to make his eyes appear that black, nearly stretching to the sclera. It didn't matter how he killed them, what mattered was that he was Falcone's man, and would be treated as such, to keep the deal going. No matter how mad Zsasz's methods seemed.
This time, when his fingers curled about the edge of his mask and tugged it off, they were not severed and bleeding, his cuff links were not ragged and torn. His hands were smooth, and no straw stuck out at odd angles from his sleeves. He was immaculate, and Crane again. He tucked the mask safely away, and watched the clock's second hand tick slowly about it's face, giving himself a few minutes in the shadows to gather his mind.
Yet strange my mind Was tickled so, I cannot help but laugh. Scarecrow smiled, and Crane smiled too. He tucked the little phial back into the eye socket of the rabbit, pressing neatly down on the plastic as Scarecrow continued his litany of nursery rhymes. He shoved the rabbit in his desk drawer, it's body folding in upon itself, broken, sad, it's fur already starting to clump off from around the eye that was torn by Scarecrow's ravenous fingers. He closed it with a 'snap', gripping the 'C' handle of his briefcase and straightened, standing up.
Fingertips ghosted along his tie, and for a moment, only a fleeting second, he could feel the twined roughness of the hangman's noose. His perception fluttered, and he felt silk again.
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