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Jonathan Crane

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December 2nd, 1995 - 1:23 am [27 Nov 2005|01:00am]
I suppose I should resign myself to the fact that writing here is becoming common place.

To say that I ran into Harvey Dent again would be a lie - I went looking for him. I'm not exactly sure what was going through my mind at the time - or at all in the last few days, honestly - but I can say that it was worth my time. Mister Dent let me in a few secrets, of particular interest, a warehouse in the possession of Carmine Falcone. One full of blood money, no doubt. And I can't help but wonder if that little tidbit would interest Mister Shreck - as Two-Face said, it seems everyone in this city has a grievance with Falcone.

This information, however, did not come without a price. In return, I offered to free Dent's partner, Edward Nygma, from Arkham. Which will be the easy part as Nygma's up for his review in a few days, and Doctor Burton already asked Meridian and myself to sit on the review panel. And I know Burton has seen Nygma's progress, so he won't be a problem. And Meridian can be swayed. Especially if Doctor Burton and I are in agreement.

The hard part, however? Dent demanded proof that I could indeed free Nygma from Arkham. He wants Nygma's files.

Now, getting the files won't be difficult - I know where they are and the archives aren't exactly guarded ... especially not from a doctor. But should someone go looking for them after they are missing? Particularly Burton or Meridian before the review meeting? I'm not sure how it would look for Nygma if they were found missing. And I doubt Dent will accept copies.

I'll think of something tomorrow morning, I'm sure.

Until then, for my records - City Hall, 2 AM.
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December 1st, 1995 - 9:23 am [21 Nov 2005|01:16am]
I find it vaguely amusing that the entry I wrote in here the other night was supposed to be a one time thing, and yet here I am, using this space as an impromptu journal again. Amusing, yet appropriate, I suppose, considering the night I had last night.

And I honestly don't know where to begin.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, as that's usually the best place to begin, but my thoughts are too jumbled at the moment. And I'm still borrowing Mister Shreck's guest room, and I'm afraid I might already be overstaying my welcome. Despite the fact that I thought I heard him step out earlier ... and he was the one who offered me use of his guest room, last night.

And it occurs to me that I'm just making excuses now, to avoid the issue, no matter how strangely interesting parts of it were.

Alright.

The beginning.

It all really starts with the fact that, until this morning, I haven't gotten any sleep since Wednesday - I was too intent on working out some kind strategy for what Mister Shreck asked of me. I'm not quite certain if I didn't think it through all the way or if I was too exhausted to think straight, but all did not go as planned.

Originally, I intended to simply get what I wanted, use the gas, and leave ... but instead, I went further than that.

Far further.

And despite the fact that I know the chances of someone beside me reading this are slim to none, I'm almost afraid to elaborate. No, more than almost. I am afraid to elaborate, because I think I took a life. I burned his home to the ground, with him inside it, and I doubt he made it out. He was far too dellusional to have made it out.

And I think what frightens me the most about this is that I don't know how I feel. Or how I should feel.

On one hand, I know that I am not a murderer. I am a scientist. A doctor. But on the other hand, it was neccessary - if I hadn't done something I could have been identified, and then what? Prison at Blackgate? Arkham? I don't know. And, truth be told, I feel ill even thinking about it, at the moment. Maybe I'll see if there's anything in the newspaper about it later. Maybe, on some off chance, he survived.

I don't know.

And if that weren't traumatization enough, after I called Mister Shreck last night to let him know I had the contract, I ran into Harvey Dent. Not that it was particularly traumatizing - if you ignore the part where there was a gun to my head. But it was interesting.

Harvey Dent. Two-Face.

The man's a psychological dream. Or a psychological nightmare. I remember meeting him once before he was Two-Face. It was in passing, one of the 'field trips' they took us on in college, since most of us were going on to become criminal psychologists ... but the man was legend. And he still is, only in a different way. He's - it's impossible to articulate - but the meeting left me strangely elated.

And he reffered to himself as 'we'. And 'us' and 'our'.

Not surprising, I suppose, as according to what I remember from Arkham's records and the news, he's suffering from MPD or something along those lines. But surprising or otherwise, hearing him reffer to himself in the plural was ... again, I can't describe it. All I know is that I would enjoy meeting up with Mister Dent - Two-Face? - again. He might kill me if he knew I was interested in him on a purely psychological level, but then again, I don't think that's all there is to my interest.

I feel ... I feel more like I'm standing on the edge of something great. And considering all that's happened and how absolutely insane it all seems? I'm not sure how to approach it.

I suppose I'll have to wait and see.



((Anyone interested in seeing part of this post, handwritten in Crane!writing? Look here.))
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November 29th, 1995 - 1:43 AM [28 Oct 2005|11:07pm]
((OOC: For the record, it should be noted that Crane's personal journal is a paper one. Therefore, no amount of hacking is going to get you access to this baby. However, should someone steal Crane's journal ... well ... you get the picture.))


Up until this point, this journal has been a record of notes on my experiments, however, I think tonight merits a change from the tried and true. Mostly because I need a place to record my thoughts since, obviously, I can't talk to anyone about what's troubling me. Nor would I want to, if I could, I suppose.

And what, exactly, could bother a doctor of psychology?

Two words.

Max Shreck.

Apparently, someone leaked my, ah, secret to him, and although he wouldn't tell me who - he said it was rude - I can venture a guess, based on what I've learned about Mister Shreck and what I've seen. One of the Red Triangle Gang. Not Ramirez or Hanover, though - they're too far gone by this point to do much. Perhaps one of the other gang members? Putting two and two together for them, it seems, is one of the things they are intellectually capable of, apparently.

I suppose I could consider myself lucky that they're considered insane, and therefore unworthy of listening to.

But even beyond that immediate inconvience - which I'm still uncertain how to proceed on, now that I know - there's this. Mister Shreck offered me a job, for lack of better wording. He needs a paper signed, no strings attached, and in return he's prepared to offer me funding. Funding which I've been desperately seeking for months as one may have gathered from my notes. And yes, I told him I'd do it - desperate times call for desperate measures - but I'm uncertain how to proceed.

He suggested I use the gas and while I agree, as that seems to be my only advantage at the moment, it's somewhat difficult to get someone suffering from a dellusional episode to do much of anything, let alone sign something. I suppose I could use the gas ex pos facto but then the question of my identity comes into play. Would he recall or be made to recall who, exactly, it was who attacked him and why? The mask I use in my experiments to shield myself from the effects of the gas might keep me from being recognized, should he remember, but I still find myself wanting something more substantial to cover my tracks.

Perhaps I should scout around for something to wear for the evening - if Gotham has it's share of costume wearing lunatics, who says I can't join their ranks, if only for a night?

Which leaves only the contract itself. It would have to be notarized before the authorities found him, to keep suspicion away from Mister Shreck. Maybe, if I were careful, I could slip it to one of the secretaries at Arkham and pass it off as late court paperwork that I needed in a hurry. And hopefully, since I rarely rush my paperwork, I could get away with it just this once.

We'll see.

I'll consider it more tomorrow morning when I'm more awake.
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