Gotham Square was a blaze of lights. Stoplights flashed red and green, incandescent icicles draped every sill and gutter, and neon wreaths shone from the windows. An enormous Christmas tree, almost blinding in its decoration, proudly stood in the center of the square and pointed to the now-starless winter sky. A rolling digital text informed shoppers of the latest crime updates, celebrity sightings, and political rumors; just underneath it, the Haute Stuff boutique displayed an enormous revolving Christmas scene, complete with fireplace and animatronic children dipping their hands into perfectly-wrapped gift boxes. Across the street, a huge, flashing sign urged pedestrians to REMEMBER, CHRISTMAS IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER! FIND GREAT BARGAINS AT ZUCKERMANN'S, BATH & BODY, JC PENNEY'S, GODIVA CHOCOLATIER, AND SO MUCH MORE!

Jonathan Crane scowled up at the sign. Imbeciles. It should be 'many', not 'much.' Drawing his worn, much-patched coat closer around him, he breathed into the collar and savored the brief wave of warmth against his skin. Where could he be? Someone bumped into him from behind, forcing the gangly professor to perform an undignified scuffle to keep from pitching headlong into the street.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?" a shrill voice snapped at him.

Crane turned to see a plump middle-aged woman, weighted down with shopping bags and wearing an expensive fur collar, glaring at him. He quickly took in the expensive ruby ring on her left finger, the heavy makeup coating her sagging face, the too-black hair painstakingly arranged under the fur hat… Eremophobia, gerontophobia, peniaphobia, sociophobia… probably obesophobia as well. The woman is pathetic. Why not give her a taste of real fear for once? Scarecrow whispered. Crane shook his head impatiently. Not yet. He's not here yet. Lost in his own thoughts, he forgot to respond to the woman. She gave him another withering glare and turned away, heavy earring swinging like pendants.

"Jerk," she muttered.

Scarecrow cackled. Come back, Jack! Come back, Jill… Later, Crane reminded him. Business first. Scarecrow smirked and was about to reply when a commotion at the end of the block drew his attention. Crane turned as well, and a thin smirk spread across the professor's gaunt features. Right on cue.

Four shops away, a handsome, well-built man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit had just exited Zale's, followed by half a dozen chattering models—well, at least, they looked like models—an older, impeccably dressed man carrying shopping bags, and at least four hungry reporters. Crane recognized one of them as Summer Gleeson, reporter and talk show host for Gotham Live.

"Mr. Wayne!" Gleeson was shouting. "Mr. Wayne! Is it true you're thinking of proposing to someone?"

"Of course he is!" a bubbly blonde giggled. "I mean, isn't it obvious? We've been together so long…"

"What, you managed to hook up with him for ten minutes?" a tall redhead replied sarcastically. "Face it, honey, I've known Bruce since college days. Isn't that right, Brucie?"

Brucie laughed.

"I guess that's about right," he drawled. "Wait a minute, where's the reporter? Thought she was asking me something."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne!" Summer Gleeson sighed, pushing her way through the gaggle of girls. "Is it true that you bought a diamond ring in Zale's?"

"Sure," Bruce said casually. The tittering behind him increased in volume.

"So you are planning to propose?" Gleeson pressed.

"Hey, I don't know about that," Bruce said. "It's one thing to buy the ring, you know, and—"

Jonathan didn't wait to hear the rest of Wayne's inanities. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his coat pocket and slowly drew out his burlap mask. The stitched mouth grinned jaggedly up at him. Boys and girls come out to play…

"…but let's just say I don't plan on dawdling underneath the mistletoe too much this year—" Bruce was drawling.

Crane slipped the mask over his head and tapped the millionaire politely on the shoulder. Wayne spun around, his face changing from dull joviality to shock and, yes, fear when he saw who had tapped him.

"Boo," Scarecrow hissed.

Wayne's face disappeared in a cloud of gas. The people nearest the playboy began coughing and whimpering; not content, Scarecrow pulled a handheld gas bomb from his coat and hurled it at the ground. The entire company erupted into shrieks of terror. Well, the entire company except Bruce Wayne. The millionaire playboy was slumped on the ground, unconscious.

Come to your playfellows in the street, Scarecrow cackled as he seized Wayne by the arms and began dragging him into the nearest shop, paying no attention to the panic fanning out around him.