2012-08-21 Fear meets Fear

It's night time in the city that never sleeps. Walking Hell's Kitchen, alone, in little more than a cute and coquetish summer dress, is ill advised for anyone that isn't nearly seven feet tall and covered in muscle. Even then, that's probably not the smartest move, and certainly not for barely five foot tall young ladies. She's been surrounded, looking highly vulnerable. The observant, however, migh tnotice that as the thugs draw close, one of them is hesitating; a trickle of sweat rolls down his temple.

Not standing at seven feet tall there was still a tall figure within the shadows observing the scene relishing the ambience of the area, dressed in a long brown tattered duster coat with the collar up and wrapped around his face and a dirty brown hoowd lowered down giving him a homeless look. This individual was one of the few who could walk the dark alleys without the slightest hint of fear, having just one he had left at home in Gotham that one fear that he enjoyed.

Happening upon the scene taking place the urge to incite fear was and thriving, urging him on not to save her but enjoy the moment when their confidence would peak, then he would casually knock over over a trash can to attract their hostility and single out the bravest of the bunch.

Little concern shown for the girl being surrounded he was more interested in his experiment, wether she ran or the others took her it didn't matter to him as long as he could complete another experiment, the strange glowing syring gauntlet hidden in his right sleeve twitching with anticipation against the inside of the long dusters sleeve waiting for the chance to be revealed.

Most of the guys don't notice that one in their midst stopped. They just move in on the girl, one reaching out to grab her shoulder. That's when her voice slides out, an eeriely calm sound: "Don't touch me." That one freezes, hand an inch above her shoulder. In the darkness, the girl's summer dress is decidedly less jovial and edging toward nightmarish. The three remaining laugh at the girl, and their confidence does indeed peek; her words egged them on.

"Aw, come on, honey!"

The girl's face turns to the one that spoke, putting her facing that shadowy man in the alley, the voyeur. The girl's eyes glitter in the darkness, green and catlike. The one that spoke gasps and recoils. The first one that froze seems to shake himself free of something, breath a bit quicker than before.

Standing there still the Voyeur of the show took it all in watching the mannerisms of the girl, the voice not one that usually showed when a woman was placed in this predicament it was calm.

Watching now more perceptively as if in one of his more slower acting fear concotions had been unleashed, his eyes on the man who had spoke had quickly changed his body language and breathing patterns.

"Interesting.." Was all the voyeur uttered making mental notes observing what was happening looking for some sort of trick, or device in the area or upon the woman his interest peaked by the strange events unfolding before him.

No trick, no device, just the subtle shift of the girl's dress from soft green to bile green, the delicate floral print into nightmare veins of a hideous creature from the dark. It's slight, the shift could just be a trick of the light and shadows. But those eyes are definitely glowly with a sinister light.

The leader, the one that tried to reach her first, seems to snap out of that spell he was in, and backhands her. The girl gasps, drops her bag, and slumps against the wall. The man presses his advantage, stepping over her to grab her by the throat. The others seem to come to themselves as the girl is lifted from the ground.

"Sorry," she whispers to her assailent, head tilting slightly. "Clowns? Really," she adds as her eyes seem hypnotic. And the man suddenly looks to one side, pales, drops her, and begin backing away from nothing, hands held up in fear, trying to ward off a figment of his imagination. His back is to the voyeur and his steps carry him that way. The rest of hte gang look confused.

"What the hell, dude?"

Grinning under that mask shrouded in darkness he can't help but enjoy this spectacle, it was as if fate had decided to give him a christmas present early.

When he heard clowns he could understand that phobia in Gotham where certain ones ruled the roost, dangerous and insane but he doubted this random thug has had the chance to meet a truly scary one.

Stepping out to the side as the person backed up in his direction he decided to finally voice his approval, voice and echoey high pitched one altered by the mask he wore making it seem far more sinister "What an entertaining display of fear, I must admit you've caught my attention."

His features still hidden as he now is more likely to be noticed by the thugs, though they didn't interest him as much now, this girl had peaked his scientific curiousity in her and the fear she was causing.

The main thug shrieks at the sound of the Voyeur's voice, turning to look at him. Sheer terror on his face, and he moves to scramble away, running for it. His gang, seeing their leader panicking, decide this is not the scene for them, and they turn to run too. The inhuman lean to the girl's appearance fades by degrees as her mind remains buried in her victims, fueling his terror filled sprint across Hell's Kitchen subtly.

"And who might you be," replies the lady of fear as she turns her glittering green eyes upon the Voyeur.

"Me.. I consider myself to be a connoisseur of fear... a Master in it's art, its fruition, it's escalation, and timing." Replied the voyeur his voice still inhuman and shrill as he takes his time undoing the long duster coat with his left hand.

Letting coat then slide open and tilt his hood up he revealed the tall 6'3 skinny being dressed in tattered rags and wrappings, all supporting the one strange deformed Scarecrow to be standing there "I am The Scarecrow."

Introducing himself with a slight bow as he takes the chance to observe her reactions to his appearence and see if his reputation had spread to New York City.

Can't say it has yet, for the girl's head tilts at the sight of the tall lanky man before her. She seems... drawn. Her eyes lose the glittering, lips parting slightly, chin leading the way in a forward lean toward him.

"A master at fear," she asks with almost awe in her voice. A light beat, then she holds out her right hand, palm down, offering her knuckles in a very European fashion.

"Angela Hawkins the Third," replies the british noble in her posh English accent, chin inclining slightly.

Outstretching that lanky thin arm he would also feeling that drawn sense to the girl, the slight hint of awe in her voice showing him someone who respects fear and may possibly hold it in as high regard as he does. Deciding to hint at his true identity though if she decided to look it up more information she'd likely find a series of gotham news reports "Such a keen interest, I can recommend you a book or two by a magnificent author and truly brilliant mind. Dr. Jonathan Crane."

Not saying it was truly him but merely suggesting the reading material of his past experiments only a little bit of digging would reveal his true self, caught by batman and incarserated into Arkham and then the reports of his escape, and of course his past crimes.

"Doctor Jonathan Crane," Angela replies, keeping her hand held out until the good fear-doctor takes it. Her head nods once, eyes still upon the man's face.

"I should have look it up," she adds lips starting to smile now. It's clear she's taking the Scarecrow at face value without any ponderings over his 'true' identity. After all, is not what is seen of a man in the height of fear more true to himself than anything else?

"I wonder, what did you see?"

Making his move his hand would grasp hers in the wrapped gloved fingers of the Scarecrow, smirking from under that mask "I've seen the end of fear.... Oblivion." Raising his right hand so the sleeve tauntingly drags down to reveal those needles on each finger and the glowing orange tubes that fuel them, he would move carefully to place the hand on her shoulder and not prick her saying "It's been a pleasure.. but alas I must enact certain ventures... We shall meet again another time I'm sure of that."

Moving off again waving with that fear gauntlet as he stepped towards the darkness once more while his other hand began doing up his coat as to not alert other alley dwellers of his criminal presence.

Angela eyes all this, those needles. She can feel the prickle of anxiety creep up her spine. It makes her grin. The man's whole countance makes her grin. She nods, and murmurs, "I look forward to it," as he makes his way back into darkness. A moment more she lingers, then collects her bag. Time to hit an 24 hour Barnes & Noble.