Batman:Scapegoat by Dan Goldstein
Chapter 1 – The Goat
"Wake up, Mr. Cobblepot."
The grotesque figure before me squirms, half mutters something, but doesn't awaken. Not surprising. The tranq I hit him with would have taken down a gorilla. But I needed to be sure. Sure he was well and truly out. Sure this bird wouldn't wake up, not before I wanted him to, before I had him trussed him up good and tight. And that took some doing. This bird weighs roughly 300 very slippery, fish-stinking pounds. It took nearly two hours to get all four limbs bound and stretched just right. The devil, they say, is in the details. And this has to be perfect, no room for error. Only clarity and purpose.
Up close, he's even more repulsive than I'd imagined; his skin pale and clammy, his nose sharp and malformed. And those teeth… Surely this is evil, corruption so deep and elemental that it oozes to the surface. I have never been more certain, more deeply convinced of the rightness of my mission. Everything is in place. But justice demands the guilty be aware of their punishment, so it is time for the sleeping Penguin to awaken and face judgement. One strong slap and his eyes shoot open.
Predictably, his first reaction is confusion… followed by threats.
"Whaaat?! What's going on?! Who the hell are you?! I'll have you skinned alive and dipped in brine for this!"
"I doubt that."
"Oh really," he strains at his bonds, "Do you have any idea who I am? Do you really think some goat-horned gimp suit is going to scare me? Or protect you? Take whatever you want, you won't get far."
"I'm not here to scare you, or to take your precious things. No, Mr. Cobblepot. I've come to take everything."
My fingers close around the knife handle, old familiar friend, and I draw the long blade from its sheath on my leg; slowly, savoring the sound of it. I hold it up, looking at the play of light along the edge and the funhouse reflection of Oswald Cobblepot in the hollow-ground steel. Even in this distorted image, I can see true fear creep across his hideous face.
He's rambling now, words pouring out of his mouth in a panicked flood. But I'm not listening. I am face to face with him, staring into those fear-mad eyes. His frantic, grating voice fades away along with all the noise and static of the world. All I can hear is the gentle whisper of the blade as it slices through his pallid throat, and the soft rush of blood cascading crimson down his twitching bulk. It brings me peace.
When it's over I wipe the knife on his coat, sheathe it, and walk to the large spotlight in the center of the room. With a flick of the switch, it bursts into blinding, brilliant life. Cobblepot's body is bathed in light, luminous, except for the dark winged shape at the center, which falls directly across his broad torso. Perfect placement, devils and details and all that. This way they will know… HE will know. This was no random act of violence, no mob hit, no robbery gone wrong. This is murder with purpose, this is sacrifice; an offering in service to the Bat.