Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, brands, or places from DC comics. Also, this story will contain graphic violent imagery.
GOTHAM CITY SEWERS
The darkness sheathed the corridor like a velvet curtain. At night, no light peeked through the openings of the infrastructure, resulting in an impenetrable blackness. Not that it mattered. Waylon had spent his life in dark places. Closets, prison cells, sewers… anywhere to keep the dainty and fragile public from witnessing his deformity.
Doctors said he was a victim of excessive epidermal keratinization, but everyone else had a different idea. To them, he was Waylon the freak, the monstrosity, the abomination. They whipped him, cowed him, told him he was worthless in every way imaginable. However, in the darkness, things were different. Protected from the public's consternation, he was vitalized. He was able to mold and shape his surroundings, his personality, his destiny, as he could never do in the light.
When he stepped into the light… when people saw him, they screamed. They ran. Some even tried to fight. However, they never considered what they were screaming at or running from. Many said they were running from a mindless monster. Others thought it was a calculating sociopath. A few even said it was a demon. All of them were wrong, though. Despite his monstrous appearance, the only thing he had ever been was a scared little boy who couldn't understand why the world hated him so passionately. Soon, Waylon began to return the world's hate with equal fervor. Fury boiled inside of him day and night. The need to take revenge, to return the suffering the world had given him, had grown into an aching hunger.
Sweet release came in the form of an earthquake. It was the strongest Gotham had seen in half a century, and the city was unprepared. The ground thrashed and shook, knocking bricks from the ceiling into the river of wastewater below. With a sharp crack, one of the lesser sewer pipes split, baring the underside of the sidewalk infrastructure. At first, Waylon thought nothing of it, only to avoid the crack in case an aftershock brought down more debris.
However, within a few days, he heard voices creeping through the sewer halls. He followed them and saw bobbing rays of light illuminating the walls. Men in reflective outfits were crowded around the crack. Groaning, he clutched his head. Their shrill voices were like ice picks driven into his brain.
"Look at this sucker! Two feet clear across! We'll have to shut down the whole damn street."
"Are you crazy? The mayor has an election coming up. You think he's just gonna let us shut down one of the busiest streets in Gotham? Poor bastard wouldn't spit right now if he thought it'd bring his approval rating down."
"Yeah, and what if this crack gives way and the street caves in? He'll just be everybody's favorite."
Waylon had heard enough, and retreated into the waters. More people would be coming down into the sewers to repair the crack. He decided not to visit this area again. Too much attention was dangerous.
A new voice cut in, sharper and louder than the rest.
"What the hell's that? Barry, shine your light over there!"
Suddenly, two lights were on him; his eyes burned from the brightness. As much as he wanted to run away, he couldn't move. The sheer terror of the light, of their faces, of being seen, had paralyzed him. The crew's facial expressions were almost comical. Their mouths were perfect circles, as were their eyes. The blood had drained from their faces, turning them ghostly white. To Waylon, they resembled the mimes that pretended they were trapped in an invisible box. For an entire minute, the rushing sewer water was the only sound that filled the corridors.
Then, one of the crew members began to stutter:
"M…m…m-monster."
Other crew members followed suit, until the muttering turned into wails that filled the catacombs.
"Monster!"
"Monster!"
"MONSTER!"
It was as if they were chanting to drive away an evil force. Perhaps if they chanted loud enough, it would destroy the horrible creature in front of them.
"MONSTER!"
"MONSTER!"
"MONSTER!"
Waylon groaned and clutched his head. The noise, the pain, the humiliation… he couldn't take it. His head felt like it was being split down the middle. He had to do something, had to make them stop. That fury, the rage he had suppressed for so long burst out of him like wildfire. They were the ones who did this to him, with their ridiculous fear and unfounded condemnation. Without so much as a word to them, he had once again become Waylon the freak. No, it couldn't happen again. He needed to show them who he was, what he was.
With a primal scream, Waylon lunged at the nearest crew member, a short, pudgy man in coveralls. He tried to run away, but it did no good. Waylon's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and he clenched his jaw, bringing down the full force of his bite. He could feel the bones crunch between his teeth. It was a good feeling, like that of eating popcorn at the movie theatre. The man caught in his teeth screamed. Other crew members began striking Waylon with wrenches, hammers, and other small tools they had on hand. Each one was blocked effortlessly by his thick, reptilian skin.
Waylon released his bite on the man's shoulder, but the screaming didn't subside. With each wail, the pain in his head increased ten-fold. It was almost unbearable. Finally, he gripped the pudgy man, rotated him, and engulfed his entire head. His teeth effortlessly sliced through the soft neck tissue, cutting through bone and muscle until the head was completely severed. He maneuvered the head around in his mouth and bit it in half. The skull cracked like a peanut shell, and the gelatinous brains began to leak out over his tongue. He chewed until the head was pulverized enough to swallow.
The rest of the crew had run, but he could hear them farther down. They were attempting to find their way out, and judging from their harsh whispers, they had gotten lost. One meekly suggested turning the flashlights on but was immediately shot down. Light would attract the beast's attention, said the others. Waylon chuckled to himself. The darkness had molded his body just as it had shaped his mind. It had eroded his eyes, making them weak from years of disuse. However, it brought his other senses to life. He could hear the tiniest breaths the other crew members took, the frantic hisses they passed from one to another. He could smell the perspiration on their brows, the scent trails they left by means of a few skin cells. In darkness or light, Waylon had all he needed to find them.
Silently gliding through the water, he closed in on the crew. They were quiet now, huddled together on one of walking paths built above the sewer water. As he prepared to lunge, Waylon stopped himself. The guilt of what he had done came upon him. Vicious decapitation, premeditated murder… he was becoming the savage people had always told him he was. Then, rage exploded back to the surface. They were the monsters. They were the ones who had forced a fight out of him, who had always attacked him without the slightest provocation. They deserved to feel his wrath.
Waylon lunged.
...
It was over in a matter of minutes. The time passed in a blur, with only small details staying clear. The snapping of bone, the squish of muscle, ragged screams, and waterfalls of blood. His abdomen protruding, Waylon dragged himself to his nest, deep within the heart of the sewer. He collapsed onto the ratty blankets that served as his bed, feeling the meat shift comfortably in his stomach. It occurred to him that there would be others investigating the missing crew. People with blood and muscle and bone, people with screams to be heard and flesh to be ripped.
Keeping that thought in his mind, Waylon Jones laughed himself to sleep.