Jonathan could already see it now. The halls of Arkham, running red, stained with the blood of anyone who dared stand in the way of Crane and Eddie. Not that many folks were stupid enough to try it, but they were still in a complex designed to house many notoriously deranged criminals. Not him. No, derangement implied abnormal behavior. No, no he was simply acting out his own part. Besides, if he were mentally ill, he would have been able to recognize it - or at the very least, another doctor would have been able to, right? Kellerman insisted that Crane was "sane and evil”, so that’s what he would be.
They step out of the cell, and immediately a man is jumping at them. He is scrawny, doesn’t even come up to Crane’s stomach (not that Crane was particularly short by any stretch), and Crane easily twists, reaching for the man’s throat, using the momentum of his leap to throw him further down the hall - straight into a wall. Blood spilled from the man’s skull, but Crane could still see shallow breathing.
As he turned to see the dozen or so inmates filing out of their cells to confront The Scarecrow and The Riddler, Crane could only muse that these ones would not be as lucky.
Jonathan Crane did not believe in coincidence, or luck, or fate. It was superstition. Pre-determined fatalism was easy to fall back onto as an excuse, as well, and those who left everything in their lives up to chance would probably be better off dunking their head into a vat of acid… assuming half their face hadn’t already gotten that treatment.
They’re careening down the hallways, and Crane is howling with laughter. Perhaps that is why they were located so quickly. He can apologize to Eddie later, when they aren’t in immediate danger of being attacked by Arkham’s filth.
Crane has his gas mask on, even though it’s hardly needed by this point in his life, and he’s just finished pulling the rest of his costume together, when he hears the sound of footsteps, boots against metal in sync. Ducking into the shadows, Crane reaches into one of the many different pouches in the many different holsters and belts beneath his oversized poncho.
Edward’s riddle is, admittedly, a good one, and Crane can’t help the sinister laughter that leaves his diseased lungs as he pulls the pin on the canister of toxin and lets it roll across the floor.
His voice no doubt carries, deep into the subconscious of those laying paralyzed on the ground, and those convulsing in shock. He wouldn’t be blamed, for claiming a subject. Would he? It was all for science. He’s crouching down to tear the (ineffective) riot helmet from a potential experiment, when he hears a clash.
His head snaps back at superhuman speeds, and a growl leaves his lips. Some prick brought a gas mask, and now Edward was unconscious. The cuffs around Eddie’s hands are enough to tell Crane he needs to end this now.
“You think yourself clever, guard? You’re trembling in fear.” He stands, about to reach into his pocket for Iaepetus when the guard recovers, shooting to his feet and drawing his firearm.
“Prisoner 0821!” His muffled voice was impressively even, but the crack towards the end tells Crane all he needs to know. “You are being ordered to comply peacefully, or I WILL use deadly force! Get back in your cell! Do you hear me? I am ordering you-”
He doesn’t need to let the man finish. In a blink, Crane has surged forth like a specter in a nightmare, a solid punch breaking the man’s visor and sending him down to the floor. His wheezing breaths confirm that the mask is broken, and he’ll soon be under the thrall of the gas. Still, Crane pockets the man’s firearm and turns to Eddie.
This would be a bitch and a half.
He had hoped Eddie would remain unconscious and sane, but unfortunately no plan always survives first contact. Query and Echo were marvelous helpers, of course, apart from their constant hounding and questioning of what happened to their boss. It was almost as if they didn’t trust him.
The conditions of the van didn’t matter much to him. He had already cut Eddie’s cuffs apart with Iaepetus, leaving them as little more than decorative bracelets to clash with his green suit. His chemistry equipment was amongst the things recovered, and Crane is already working overtime on an antidote to the toxin when he hears Eddie awaken. The way he hit his head, it’s marvelous that he even has enough left in him to scream the way he does - but he still screams.
He’s just finished with the syringe, when a surprisingly muscled frame rams into him, sending him barreling to the side of the van’s chamber, and making it rock to and fro. He looks down at his fear-seized friend, and puts a calming hand up, even through the excruciating pain.
“I am sorry, Edward. This is for your own good.” With no time to spare, he jabs the syringe into the man’s arm and injects the antidote as quickly as possible.
Now, all he could do was wait and hope it took effect.
“Edward Nygma, you are a brilliant man. You have gotten us out of Arkham. Remember Arkham? Your partners are here. Query and Echo. We’re on the way to safety. You have done it Edward.” Hopefully a reminder of where he was would help.
