Here's the next chapter :)

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Jonathan lay on the crumpled sheets of the bed. He was on his side, lying in a semi-fetal position and staring blankly at the pattern of the wall paper. He wondered when Bruce would be back. He wondered if they'd talk this time. He wondered if he'd done something wrong.


He lied. He said he wouldn't do this again. But he had. He'd been angry and it had hurt.

Jonathan was crying, curled into a ball on the floor. He didn't want to move but the Scarecrow made him climb to his feet. He stood unsteadily, one hand clutching his side, where he knew at least one rib was broken.

"We should stay. He'll be sorry. He won't do it again. We must have done something wrong."

"No! We will die if we stay. We leave."

"He wouldn't kill us."

"He IS killing us! We go!" He punched the window. A piercing alarm began to sound as the glass shattered, lacerating the skin of his hand. They were on the second floor.

"It too far!"

Scarecrow jumped.

He landed well, his small weight distributed evenly on hands and feet, legs bent up against his chest. Still there was pain. Scarecrow straightened and ran.


It was almost an hour later that, apparently deciding they were safe, he faded into the background, allowing Crane to take control.

Clinically he assessed the situation. He was in a narrow alley on the outskirts of Gotham. He couldn't stay there but it would be safe for a little while. Sitting, he checked his condition. On top of the injuries inflicted by the Bat-man he suspected his right ankle was now fractured. It was swollen and starting to bruise. The palms of his hands were grazed but the damage was minor, didn't matter.

He tore a strip from the end of his t-shirt and used it to bind his ankle. He needed to find somewhere safe to rest.