Rhyme 1: Time to Play [Holo]
Arkham was too quiet, these days, for Jonathan's taste. Isolation was even quieter. Curled up on the floor of his cell, straightjacket pinning his arms around him, he tried to ignore the noise.
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden burn?" he sang softly to the silence. Jonathan's head was never quiet enough, these days. He told them. HE'D TOLD THEM! He needed his chemicals, his medications, his own lab, his own formulas. He had created his insanity. He could have cured it. Now all he could do was delay it.
"With flames that roar, oh you'll see them soar, and fear you soon shall learn…" Crane twitched on the floor, burning, words running through his mind like water through a watermill, churning boredom into insanity, silence into noise, and everything, everything in the world, into fear.
And, suddenly, it stopped. He was standing. His straightjacket was undone. Machines ticked away above him, surreal enough that he wondered if it was another delusion, but there was something tangible about this, about the feel of his fingers touching each other when he pulled the straightjacket sleeved up, or touching the metallic walls, that was too real. Something about the air that was too sharp, too clear to be the air of Gotham, of the Narrows. Something about the silence that was just quiet enough.
"Mistress Mary, silly fairy, what do you think you know?" Jonathan sang softly, and was delighted to her the faint echo of the chamber as his notes reverberated off the enclosed, reflective walls. This was real. Somehow he was free of Arkham again. He cared about the who and why in a distant sort of way, but that wasn't important now. There was a pedestal, and a tablet, and next to the tablet . . .
"You've set me free, and along with me, you've let loose my scare-crow…"
Crane picked up his mask, turning it over in his hands, and gave the tablet a eerie smile.
This was going to be fun.
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden burn?" he sang softly to the silence. Jonathan's head was never quiet enough, these days. He told them. HE'D TOLD THEM! He needed his chemicals, his medications, his own lab, his own formulas. He had created his insanity. He could have cured it. Now all he could do was delay it.
"With flames that roar, oh you'll see them soar, and fear you soon shall learn…" Crane twitched on the floor, burning, words running through his mind like water through a watermill, churning boredom into insanity, silence into noise, and everything, everything in the world, into fear.
And, suddenly, it stopped. He was standing. His straightjacket was undone. Machines ticked away above him, surreal enough that he wondered if it was another delusion, but there was something tangible about this, about the feel of his fingers touching each other when he pulled the straightjacket sleeved up, or touching the metallic walls, that was too real. Something about the air that was too sharp, too clear to be the air of Gotham, of the Narrows. Something about the silence that was just quiet enough.
"Mistress Mary, silly fairy, what do you think you know?" Jonathan sang softly, and was delighted to her the faint echo of the chamber as his notes reverberated off the enclosed, reflective walls. This was real. Somehow he was free of Arkham again. He cared about the who and why in a distant sort of way, but that wasn't important now. There was a pedestal, and a tablet, and next to the tablet . . .
"You've set me free, and along with me, you've let loose my scare-crow…"
Crane picked up his mask, turning it over in his hands, and gave the tablet a eerie smile.
This was going to be fun.