au_muses: Counting Bodies to the Rhythm of War Drums lyrics
It hadn't taken long for him to realize that something wasn't right.
Crane's instincts were sharp. He could perceive people looking at him from a mile away, and that always intrigued him. Usually he was the one doing the watching, not the other way around, so when people made the attempt... Well. It was interesting, to say the least, and while he didn't mind it he was not particularly open to it.
Especially now, when he was trying to avoid being spotted.
Instead of turning away, though, Crane didn't look away. He didn't turn around and casually pretended as if he wasn't being watched. He didn't try to lose the man watching him, because instead he moved closer to him. He smiled, and he even extended his hand much to the man's surprise.
In almost no time, the private investigator was being taken apart by Dr. Jonathan Crane.
Except it wasn't Jonathan Crane the one doing this. It was Crane's "distant cousin," who had been getting asked a lot of questions to see if it was really him the one that had escaped Gotham's asylum. The investigator hadn't believed him at once - which pleased Crane, because it allowed him more time with his toy - but it hadn't mattered. A few easy laughs, some jokes, and the man seemed to believe him more and more. Crane knew how to fit the roles he needed to be, after all. He knew how to deceive people. He knew how to manipulate what they saw to his liking, and he knew how to bend and distort their perception until he was pleased.
He had been hired, the investigator had told him, by a certain Harry Osborn. It had taken every bit of effort in Crane's part to not show the interest in his brown eyes (because the contact lenses were being worn again). Instead he had looked confused as he curiously asked just why anyone would want to find his "cousin," but after some vague answers and after his reassurances that he would let him know if he heard something, he picked up his backpack and claimed that he was late for a project.
And that wasn't a lie.
As soon as he returned to the apartment where he was staying, Crane started up his computer and started his research. He had heard of Osborn, of course, but nothing in detail. And the fact that he had even hired an investigator to find him intrigued him all on its own. Why him? Why Osborn? For what, exactly?
It wasn't hard to find information on the boy. It was far too easy for his liking, actually, but it was fine. This was the outershell. This was what everybody saw. The pretty boy. The prince of Manhattan.
"What's inside that pretty little head of yours?" he mused quietly as a picture of Harry Osborn displayed on his screen from one of the many articles the search engine had found for him.
A new puzzle? Perhaps. There was a look to the boy; a certain glint that made Crane look a bit closer. What drove a rich kid to look for one of the criminals that had escaped Arkham?
The question looped around his head immediately. There had to be a reason. Something other than the boy just being morbidly curious. And even if that really was the only reason, then Crane was now curious enough to find out.
The private investigator would surely inform Harry Osborn that he had found a relative of Crane. One that people kept mistaking for Crane himself, as he had claimed, but one that was really nothing like Jonathan Crane. One that would inform him if he heard anything.
But before the investigator could really find him again, a message would arrive in Harry Osborn's cell phone from an untraceable number. Because, with enough research, money, and efforts, anything could be reached. Anything could be possible. Harry Osborn would know this.
'Just how curious are you, Mr. Osborn?'
He had to know, after all. His attention had been captured, but he still had to know. He still wanted to know because he needed to gather his information before his new game could begin.
Don't fret precious I'm here, step away from the window
Go back to sleep
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils,
See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do.
word count: 707
Crane's instincts were sharp. He could perceive people looking at him from a mile away, and that always intrigued him. Usually he was the one doing the watching, not the other way around, so when people made the attempt... Well. It was interesting, to say the least, and while he didn't mind it he was not particularly open to it.
Especially now, when he was trying to avoid being spotted.
Instead of turning away, though, Crane didn't look away. He didn't turn around and casually pretended as if he wasn't being watched. He didn't try to lose the man watching him, because instead he moved closer to him. He smiled, and he even extended his hand much to the man's surprise.
In almost no time, the private investigator was being taken apart by Dr. Jonathan Crane.
Except it wasn't Jonathan Crane the one doing this. It was Crane's "distant cousin," who had been getting asked a lot of questions to see if it was really him the one that had escaped Gotham's asylum. The investigator hadn't believed him at once - which pleased Crane, because it allowed him more time with his toy - but it hadn't mattered. A few easy laughs, some jokes, and the man seemed to believe him more and more. Crane knew how to fit the roles he needed to be, after all. He knew how to deceive people. He knew how to manipulate what they saw to his liking, and he knew how to bend and distort their perception until he was pleased.
He had been hired, the investigator had told him, by a certain Harry Osborn. It had taken every bit of effort in Crane's part to not show the interest in his brown eyes (because the contact lenses were being worn again). Instead he had looked confused as he curiously asked just why anyone would want to find his "cousin," but after some vague answers and after his reassurances that he would let him know if he heard something, he picked up his backpack and claimed that he was late for a project.
And that wasn't a lie.
As soon as he returned to the apartment where he was staying, Crane started up his computer and started his research. He had heard of Osborn, of course, but nothing in detail. And the fact that he had even hired an investigator to find him intrigued him all on its own. Why him? Why Osborn? For what, exactly?
It wasn't hard to find information on the boy. It was far too easy for his liking, actually, but it was fine. This was the outershell. This was what everybody saw. The pretty boy. The prince of Manhattan.
"What's inside that pretty little head of yours?" he mused quietly as a picture of Harry Osborn displayed on his screen from one of the many articles the search engine had found for him.
A new puzzle? Perhaps. There was a look to the boy; a certain glint that made Crane look a bit closer. What drove a rich kid to look for one of the criminals that had escaped Arkham?
The question looped around his head immediately. There had to be a reason. Something other than the boy just being morbidly curious. And even if that really was the only reason, then Crane was now curious enough to find out.
The private investigator would surely inform Harry Osborn that he had found a relative of Crane. One that people kept mistaking for Crane himself, as he had claimed, but one that was really nothing like Jonathan Crane. One that would inform him if he heard anything.
But before the investigator could really find him again, a message would arrive in Harry Osborn's cell phone from an untraceable number. Because, with enough research, money, and efforts, anything could be reached. Anything could be possible. Harry Osborn would know this.
'Just how curious are you, Mr. Osborn?'
He had to know, after all. His attention had been captured, but he still had to know. He still wanted to know because he needed to gather his information before his new game could begin.
Don't fret precious I'm here, step away from the window
Go back to sleep
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils,
See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do.
word count: 707