There always came a time in a Gothamite’s life where one became part of the city's lifeblood, knew its breaths and patterns, tuned into the city's rhythm. Most citizens had a way of just [i]knowing[/i] something was off. And most of them never looked further, always attributing it to something rational: The Batman taking another major crook to the revolving door known as Arkham. The latest breakthrough from Wayne Enterprises. A poor sap getting his legs broken after a member of the mob failed to collect on his payments. A citizen calling the police and for the first time, trusting the officer who arrived to help them. A birth. A wedding. A death. A funeral. Just another day in Gotham City. Just another pump in the city's heart: living, breathing, creating, destroying. But among the citizens were the rarer few who embraced their part in the city's lifeblood, specifically tuned into the changes in the air. Ones who embraced and directly sought out those shifts in the pattern, who [i]lived[/i] for that ripe moment when the city unknowingly held its collective breath. The Batman was one such soul. The Joker had arguably been another. Most now attributed those delicious little tremors going down their spines, that uneasiness that ate at their hearts, the trepidation of taking a breath of relief to the rumors of the latter’s most recent demise. But those who learned how to watch and listen knew that while the fall of Gotham’s self-proclaimed Clown Prince of Crime had indeed played its part in the shift in paradigms, something else lurked beneath the surface. Another change, one hidden to all but those specifically looking for it. Jonathan Crane enjoyed those moments. Something changed. Something [i]important[/i]. Something that made his skin prick, his blood run cold, his breath come in long, uneasy draws. [i]Fear.[/i] Not only his own, but those around him. From the rooftop of one of Gotham’s crumbling old buildings, the Scarecrow stood tall in his proper attire, relishing in the small thrill of potentially getting seen or caught. The Gotham wind gently caught the ends of his tattered coat that provided little protection against the midnight chill, made the brim of his hat shift and flutter. His left leg straightened in its brace, aching from the evening weather, and his face only remained warm behind his cloth mask due to the trapped heat of his breath. The little thrill passed in fleeting seconds. Once upon a time, it charged him, granted him precious anticipation as he patiently waited for another piece of his schemes to fall into place, for the Batman to arrive so his twisted games could begin. Now it taunted him, giving him only the smallest taste before it mercilessly pried itself from the tips of his fingers. He didn't know [i]what[/i] changed about this city, only that something [i]did[/i]. And it lured him from one of his many sanctuaries in this city, instinct as keen as a bloodhound’s nose. Earlier this evening, he made a few rounds in the city, taking care to keep back, to shift his posture, even going so far as to wear a bulked up coat to disguise his distinct skeletal frame, a pair of loose slacks to cover his brace, and old hat to hide his eyes. Few paid him any heed, in their eyes just another lost soul in this city looking to get home and drown his sorrows after a long day of work. His wanderings only served to confirm what he already knew. Whether they realized it or not, they were afraid. Anxious. [i]Terrified[/i]. On edge about the new dynamic, the new heartbeat, the new dance Gotham would take on now that the one between bat and clown had ended. The Scarecrow took in and savored each little morsel of fear as a dying man would his last meal. And like a dying man, those trivial tidbits of terror hardly satisfied him. The Scarecrow glanced down at the street, at the pavement below. He watched as two men herded a terrified woman into a nearby alley, listened to their footsteps, their mocking words. He closed his eyes as they disappeared into the shadows, just listened to the woman’s pitiful pleading, the sounds of a struggle, the distinct creak of leather jackets and the rustle of cloth. He breathed in deeply as she screamed. What a beautiful pitch, the panicked tones rising, the timbre unbroken, the note long and satisfying when it finally hit the crescendo. Like an opera singer giving her all right before the curtains fell. It cut off as one of the men covered her mouth, but even from here, the Scarecrow heard the echoing of stifled vocal chords against the alleyway, the weak attempts at self-defense as he imagined one of the men holding her back, the soft sobs as she gradually lost all hope of someone helping her. He didn’t care about what happened in that alley, only about the gentle taste of fear on his tongue, the tiny shudders down his spine, the increased pace of his heart. It would have been much sweeter had he been close enough to see her face, to smell the horror brought to the surface, to watch her body contort in a fearful dance as she fought to free herself from her captors. Like before, it left him with only a cruel taste of what he desired. Of what he [i]needed[/i]. It rarely lasted anymore. Unfortunately, more urgent things required his attention. His earlier jaunts helped him to better pinpoint the shifts in Gotham’s paradigm. In its [i]fear[/i]. The chokehold that gripped this city for nearly two decades now waned. Each new breath the city took would sting as it tried to steady itself, to find a new pace, a new heartbeat, a new dance. The Scarecrow walked over to the side of the building, crouched down onto the fire escape. Once he reached the ground, he ducked into the shadows, kept moving and stayed out of sight until he reached the closest of his sanctuaries. Once there, among his books and chemicals, he pulled out a cheap, disposable flip phone. Though Edward kept his secrets very well under wraps, he still left a few ways to contact him in the rare instance it could be needed. The Scarecrow typed a few words into a text, sent it to an unregistered number. [i]Quoth the raven[/i]. Their code for the rare instances one of them needed to talk. He hit send, waited for confirmation before sending another. [i]The beating heart tells no tales.[/i] Anyone intercepting the messages -- like a certain pointy-eared, dark-caped rodent -- might presume a Poe theme, or even think about Dead Man’s Point near Gotham Harbor, where a few pubs and other secluded locations might make for a certain meeting point among deviants. For the Scarecrow, it was a sense of professional courtesy. It meant he was allowing Edward to take time out of his [i]very busy[/i] night of doing whatever he did to set up his riddle clues in order to give him a time and place at his convenience. After that, it was a simple matter of biding his time.