"And this will work? I've tried countless combinations, it never quite seems to stick with those of a...higher constitution." The emaiciated figure of Doctor Crane sat hunched over his work station, deep in the Gotham underbelly, once a respected figure on the science of the mind, he had, without a doubt, broken his own. The pursuit of his goals had become absolute, and this presented a bound towards the perfection he yearned for.

"Quite certain, the toxin added to the serum should overpower all but a few notable exceptions, but, this is only to be released when instructed." In contrast to the hunched figure of the doctor, the man that stepped out of the shadows was the model of sophistication, a fine tailored suit and dark rimmed glasses of expensive taste. This was the sort of money that required anonymity, not fame.

"Of course, of course." The Scarecrow responded, a little too quickly, he grated under the impression of control, but it would be worth it, to have continued access to the hidden substance that amplified his already potent work. "You may thank the Presiden-Elect for his generous investment." He turned to look at the man standing aside from him, a crooked grin spread across his features. The other man only frowned.

"You will not repeat that, under any circumstances, or there will be a price to pay."

[b][u]Now[/u][/b]

The small gathering of heroes, three together at once, seemed to herald the next stage of the chaos that was Gotham City, something equally felt by the mystical mind of one John Constantine. A wave of darkness seemed to pass through the city, unnoticed by those not attuned to the ways of magic, a curse, screamed with uncomparable fear.

In the next moment, however, the consequence was more than visible to all. The riots that had swept the city descended further into a violent orgy of paranoid attacks. Roving gangs that had united against the monsters they all saw in the shadows, suddenly turned on each other, seeing the same darkness in their hasty allies. Those police units deploy to maintain order and contain the panic when they could not, found their equipment no defence against whatever new threat attacked them. Soon, the spattering of gunfire in the night air became a blaze, as the National Guard turned on itself.

Gradually, in the minds of those capable of perceiving such things, John Constantine among them, the pulse of this new attack brought with it the feverish whispering of words, a sobbing cry, echoing across the pulse of power;

[b]Azarath Metrion Zinthos[/b]