Hi! Its me again! The Hairy Wampa! I am sorry for the lack of updateage, I'm working on a story that I am super excited about and I just wanted to give you all a heads up for it.

The story will be a Batman centered one, set in a the first year of his career, shortly after the Mask of the Phantasm flashbacks. Batman/Bruce is fighting for respect both as a crime fighter and a business mogul, and as in the descrpition, he has an opportunity when a cult moves into Gotham. The Church of Blood (Props for anyone who knows what that is!) is coming to Gotham, bringing evil in their wake, and Batman faces them. They are magic users, a first for the dark knight, and attack him mercilessly. Also on the crime front is Milton Fine, the Broker, a big time industrial criminal Batman is fighting with both identities. Unfortunately, the Broker calls on the world's deadliest assasin to care of the nuisance (Guess who?) and Batman is pressed on the spiritual and physical fronts as he struggles against his first real challange.

Also appearing will be some Teen Titans vilains early in their careers, Vicki Vale (who was not addressed in the animated series), a young Jim Gordon, and the ever sleazy commisioner Loeb.

I am pumped, and I hope my writing doesn't dash the excellent plot to pieces. I have a number of Easter-Egg characters lined up as well which I will not identify. I have had this idea for a long time, since really I watched the Teen Titans 3rd season back in the day, but I would be lieing if I denied inspiration from the upcoming Arkham Origins Game, Batman Begins, Batman: Year One, and of course the good old animated series.

As always, I own no rights to anything, and I create with the sincerest love of the sources, and encourage you all to go spend money on their products.

I shall get my story posted post-haste, but I want it heavily edited, so it may be a bit.

Yours in Fandom,

The Hairy Wampa

BbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBb

Chapter One

The air was heavy; it was always heavy.

Sebastian learned to tolerate to stenches of the rituals over the years, one did not alter the master's plans. The blood, the screams, these he enjoyed, but the smells…rotting flesh and seared brimstone churned even the most stalwart gut.

The young man on the dais had done nothing to deserve his fate. None of sacrifices had; it was the way of it. Sebastian had overseen the rituals for decades now, and made sure each and every sheep was spotless for the master.

The man cried out in fear; his eyes were covered with red cloth. Otherwise he was naked, kneeling on a grate dais. Around the bars were carven demons, etched out of volcanic glass and nearly as old as the earth itself. Their clawed hands reached for the man in the center, both supporting and destroying the grill of which they were part.

Beyond these were layers of heavy smoke; incense, brimstone, and ash. The thick atmosphere wash only parted by an even distribution of iron based torches, bone like in shape and held in equally skeletal hands. Dark red robes like arteriole blood hid the rest of the figures looking on, not one face visible.

Sebastian himself wore such a robe, the only distinguishing feature the white goat's skull embroidered on its chest. The symbol was one of authority amongst the gathering, as well as respect. Each thread of Sebastian's robe was knotted from his own families scalps, the white skull his own hair. It was dyed in his mother's blood; he could still taste it when he wore it.

Power, that was the key; absolute, unchallengeable power. Sebastian had this in spades, all of this was his kingdom, his clan. He only answered to one, and he afforded Sebastian the last piece of godhood; prestige.

So while the smell of the suffering innocents offended his olfactory sense, his pride and his power overrode his gut. Sebastian smiled in the shadows of his hood, sanded teeth razor edged and pointed, immaculately white. It was time, the master was watching.

Without a word or command Sebastian lifted his hands, heavy sleeves rolling away to reveal scared forearms. The deathly white appendages rested on the demon before him, its four eyed visage seeming to engulf his hands. The others followed suit, tossing their torches onto the grating and gripping the demons at their fronts.

The sacrifice cried out as his oiled flesh ignited, but his bound hands could not stop the flames. They licked his starved body and consumed it like a violent lover, and Sebastian watched with rapt fascination. The man didn't live long, but suffered while he did.

Sebastian didn't move as the translucent statue seared his fingertips, adding his own flesh to the burning stench. His throat hummed as his lips parted in ecstasy; the master was watching. Sebastian spoke, his deep voice carrying despite the heaviness of the air, "All hail Skath, Lord of Perdition!" The others spoke in tandem, praising their lord.

From the dying flames on the once youthful man's corpse, Sebastian saw a set of eyes, four eyes. They were smiling at him, and he heard as much in his soul as in his ears the distant rumble of the master's satisfaction.

BbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBb

Gotham city was home of the unimaginably rich, and the unfathomably poor; a land of opportunity for an enterprising individual. As it stood, there were thousands of syndicates operating in the sprawling cesspool of a city, and not one in over ten years had been challenged. That was power that could not be bought, the power of fear; and people were afraid. But all that would change, fear…would change hosts. That was something he had sworn, with all his life.

The shadows moved alongside a derelict building, ancient stained bricks leaving no trace of the phantom they hid. Eyes watched, glowing in the dark, and kept a record of those coming and going. The night belonged to the Bat; the rest of the rodents simply hadn't learned yet.

Below the living gargoyle a hotdog stand sat, and even from twelve stories up, he could see that it had been abandoned for some time. Still, two men stood behind it, long coats of cheap make turned up against the autumn air. A number of cigarette butts were about their feet, more joining them every minute or so. Not that anyone could tell; the litter of the street was such that the pavement itself was an odd sight to see.

At the far end of the road a bum sat against an empty dumpster bin, snoring audible despite the hum of the city. It was a loud kind of quite in neighbourhoods like this, where the omnipresent rumble of cars, newsboys, and machinery fell into the background, leaving only hair raising dead air.

Still no one came, and the men kept smoking. Their stained fingertips only darted out for the death sticks, but he could tell they were shaking. Nervous; these men were nervous, and rightly so. The squealer he had…interviewed earlier that week had nothing but terror ridden rumour to say about the organization, and these men were meeting them.

Low level couriers, nothing more, these men had little to offer the vigilant shadow above them. However, they associated with bigger fish, fish that were worth catching. So he waited with them, a silent third party; a watchful predator.

There, at the end of the block, a figure. The individual in question was clearly better off than the two men below; his coat came to mid knee, dark red, with a fedora to match. A cigarillo poked from its overhang, not lit, but cut. Hands were in pockets, the figure, a man judging by gait and build, strode with confidence, not even bothering to examine his surroundings. Well shined shoes clapped a steady rhythm as the man approached, never altering his course.

The two men before him tossed their cigarettes to the ground, not bothering to stamp them out. They pulled at their own coats, straightening in preparation of the meet. He could see their sweat; they were nervous indeed. With a flicker of eye movement the lenses changed, and the wire mic activated, the silent shadow was ready.

Under the broken streetlights and looming buildings the men met each other, the decrepit hotdog stand a kind of line in the sand. "You the guy?" one of the coated messengers asked, thick with the unique accent of Old Gotham; like Brooklyn and Chicago dialects mixed. The burgundy clad man nodded, cigarillo bobbing from the shadows.

The second courier fingered his collar, "The Broker has a lot of customers. Prove it." The other man simply stared from under his fedora, and the courier was visibly shaken. In a sudden movement, the tall man drew a card from his pocket and tossed it to the man. He glanced at it, and paled. From above all that was visible was the corner of a swirling symbol, like an 's' or '5'. The vigilant shadow did not recognize it. That concerned him; it was his job to know.

"Fine, we'll show you the merchandise, this way." The courier drew his lighter and burned the paper as the other men headed down the street. The shadowy figure overhead followed, the quiet procession below not traveling very far. They entered a squat parking garage, above a large underground warehouse. The building and its enormous basement had been vacant for many years, even the memory of movement was clogged with dust and litter.

The man on the rooftop watched as the three men entered via a surprisingly intact and locked door. The moment it was shut the man dropped from his perch, cape flaring out to slow his decent. He landed like a demon, silent and flared. With practiced speed he approached and picked the lock, slipping in without any evidence of his passage.

Inside was much as he had expected, mainly a large parking garage. A number of decrepit and doubtlessly broken cars rested about, most still within faded parking lines. Ahead were the three men, still walking with purpose towards the car elevators situated far from the entrance.

The stalker ducked and followed carefully, always keeping something between himself and his prey. They entered the lift to the left, and with the press of a button it slid noiselessly downward. He rushed after it, jumping into the shaft without hesitation.

Heavy Kevlar gloves easily held the slick cables, and he slid down after the elevator, cloak flaring out behind him. He caught it perhaps 50 ft below, and rode the remaining 20 pressed against its roof as the shaft opened into a large space. There were no lights at present, but he could sense the size of the place, and it was vast.

The lift jerked to a stop, only a slight squeal to mark the event, and the door slid open. Out came the two men, coats now unbuttoned since they were out of the wind. The tall man they were escorting however kept his tight to his frame, either cold or hiding his identity.

They walked a few feet and stopped, the tall man glancing about. He looked inquisitively at the man to his right, who nearly jumped, "Oh, the lights," He sprinted back to the elevator, beside which hung a thick cable and control box. He pried open the cover and flicked a few switches, fluorescent lights blinking on overhead.

The room was vast, as the lights flickered on the space was revealed to be an old vehicle foundry; a number of the smelting equipment still sat idly against the concrete walls. The tall red clad man took it in with his uniform silence, smoke issuing occasionally from his mouth. The man next to him began fidgeting with his collar again, "This place is mostly done, per specifications; soundproof like you asked, and we left the equipment." The other man returned and chimed in, "Mr. Fine never disappoints."

"But he has." The voice, slightly African in accent, was none the less cold and quiet, and both men glanced nervously at the red clad man who had spoken for the first time. "The Broker not only took too long, but he allowed news of our arrival to travel." The coated man spun on his heel and pointed a long gaunt finger towards the elevator.

Caught, the vigilant shadow rose to his full height, a black shadow defying the adequate lighting. His silhouette was terrifying to behold, with wide arching shoulders and spiked arms, and a head with two spines sticking up. The very image of a bat, the man was Batman, and even the nobody-criminals had heard of him by now.

The red coat man laughed, an air retched sound, and pulled off his hat. The face was gaunt like the hand, and the man's features were like a corpse'. "You have failed us, but perhaps your peers will be better." The man never broke eye contact with the Batman as he swiftly swung his hat out.

The fedora never left his hand, it simply was held there as his arm swung in a circle, neatly passing by both men's necks in its passage. Batman saw the glint too late, and flinched forward as the two men fell to the ground, blood spurting from slit necks. The hat fell to the ground, blades on the rim now visible, and the gaunt man laughed again, a soft laugh of pity.

"You are the Batman. We have heard of you. Quite the mess, Ace chemicals. That thief will never be the same." Batman's mind worked quickly, and as he dropped from the elevator top he had already determined a number of things. One, this man, and whoever he was working for, was knowledgeable. The Ace chemicals business had only been a month before, and no one knew the Batman had been present. Second, this man was obviously highly confident, seeing as knowledge would have told him of the Batman's prowess. His instincts shouted for caution.

"Who are you working for?" the dark knight's voice was deep and gravelly, far different than his alter-ego. It commanded respect, and instilled fear; neither of which the gaunt man seemed to notice. "That is my business Batman. I am afraid, however, that you cannot be allowed to interfere."

The man shrugged and his coat fell to the ground, revealing a crimson bodysuit underneath. A number of bones, mostly human by the look, were woven in, provided armour that was reminiscent of rotting flesh. Gauntlets covered his wrists, a number of short spikes protruding claw like from its length.

Batman tensed, ready for the inevitable assault, but it didn't come. The other simply stood there, watching him. The man motioned for Batman to approach, which only raised his danger senses further. Clearly, the man wanted a fight. Batman smirked to himself, he had trained with the best of the best, and he was the best. This guy was nothing, a simple overconfident criminal.

He approached the man and stood four feet away, close enough to smell the smoke from the cigarillo discarded on the ground. "I am Brother Nikt. But that is enough posturing, come," The man, Nikt, drew back into a martial arts pose, hands out front. "Let me taste of your skill"

Batman raised his own fists, and began circling. Nikt did the same, and soon he struck. Gauntleted fist was deflected by bare hand, and the two continued exchanging fast strikes of every fighting technique known to man.

The blows were strong and lightning fast, but Batman found himself tiring, much more than he should have been. Each block and swing took more effort, and it bothered him. The other appeared no worse for wear, only a slight sweat and tears in his outfit betraying the ferocity of the fight.

Nikt was good, Batman had to give him that. But Batman was just a slight bit stronger. So when the man moved to block a chest blow, Batman returned and pummelled upraised hands. The man was knocked to the ground, and Batman leapt to interrogate him.

However as his knee came down to crack the other's collar bone he simply…disappeared. Batman's armoured leg struck the concrete with a painful thud and a laugh came from his left. Looking up he saw Nikt standing twelve feet away, all evidence of their fight gone, arms crossed mockingly.

"Did you really think that was it Batman? I am not a simple crook," blackness suddenly filled Batman's vision as tendrils of darkness seemingly appeared from everywhere. The air reeked of sulfur, and the Dark Knight found his weight increasing so that he couldn't move. "We are legion Batman, and you cannot stop what is coming."

The man approached with a smirk on his ugly face. "Your end is near Samaritan, and your soul is mine. Do you have any last words?" The gaunt man leaned over Batman and laughed again, but the Dark Knight wasn't done. With great effort he had pulled blast pellets from the belt at his waist, and now was the time to use them. He threw them down, blinding the other, who shouted in pain as the brilliant light shone.

The weight on his body lifted, and Batman swung a punch across the man's jaw, his cowl polarizing the glare. His other fist caught a handful of suit, and he tore off a section of the man's sleeve.

Not one to run, Batman hesitated, but as the man stood up from the ground he knew that until more information was attained, this man could not be beaten. Sprinting on pure adrenaline he reached the elevator and hoped up the shaft, launching a grappling cable at the apex of his jump. The cable struck the roof of the shaft and Batman's arm jerked as the mechanism in the launcher he was holding pulled him up.

Whoever that Nikt was working for was powerful, that much was for sure. Batman couldn't beat him, not yet, and he kicked himself for rushing in. at least he had a piece of evidence; he would find out who these guys were, and he would end them. No one messed with Gotham.

BbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBbBb

There you all are. I changed it from a crossover, since it really is a Batman fic with some villains 15 years or so before the Teen Titans show, and since they exist in the same universe (in my head) its not a crossover.

There will be human sacrifice a rape in future chapters, and while not explicit, the topics will be there, so if these subjects offend you I apologize. I assure you all of it is evil, and I'm not one for nasty descriptions.

Read on, true believer, and tell your pals about me. If you have any that is.