Chapter 1: A Hero Dies
Date: April 22
Location: Harrisburg, Ohio
Time: 5:49 A.M.
"...Breaking news this early April morning. I've just received word that the local vigilante of Harrisburg has broken up the hostage situation that began at St. Walker's hospital, only two hours ago" the male newscaster spoke on the active television, lighting up the dark, empty living room, inside the suburban home, interrupting the current broadcast.
As the reporter continued on, the door to the front of the home burst open, and a humanoid, muscular shape ran in. The figure that entered was male in appearance, and was wearing a flashy red-and-white outfit, that reeked of something to do with heroism. The upper part of his face was concealed by a red cloth mask with a pair of eyeholes cut into it, but the large smile on the lower part of it was not kept under disguise, and was instead worn on the man's jaw proudly.
"The man, a one Mason Dearing, murdered several hospital staff in an out-of-nowhere shooting spree, before taking nearly fifty more, both other staff and patients, hostage" the radio continued on, as the man closed the door behind himself, and took his mask off, revealing his full face, and reddish-orange hair. "Soon after, he was apprehended by the city's up-and-coming hero, Buckeye, to whom the hostages say "owe their lives" to. This marks his eighth documented rescue since beginning his career two months ago."
"Honey!" the man known as Buckeye shouted, in a happy tone, as he held his mask in one of his white-gloved hands. "I'm back! And I've got one Hell of a tale to tell you!"
No response. Smirking all the while, he looked at the on t.v., which was broadcasting the events of the rescue he performed, and tossed the nightstick he wore, the one he used to dish out justice, onto the couch nearby, thinking as to where his wife was.
"She left the tele on... Where's she now?" he whispered to himself, stroking his stubble-laced chin. Shrugging, he began to set off deeper into the house, heading toward the bathroom.
Buckeye let out a tired, well-earned yawn as he began to trudge through the hall of his home, cupping his mouth as he did so. At this point, he heard the unmistakable sound of water dribbling up ahead.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The noise continued on, and was clearly louder than the sound of the nearby television, like a tap, or a shower faucet not fully shut off.
Oh, she's taking a shower he though, with a small laugh, as he made the final turn toward the restroom.
What he saw next ripped every other thought out of his mind, except what was now in front of him.
A crimson puddle lied just outside the door, staining the carpet ground. Buckeye let out a gasp of terror, at the realization that it was blood, and ran up to the open doorway, tripping in surprise on his way to it.
"Meg?!" he asked, saying his wife's name in more of a frantic scream than a voice, as he entered the bathroom. There was more blood on the white, tiled floor, like an uninviting red carpet of liquid, and he finally saw what he absolutely feared, as he looked up.
Meg was there, but she was hanging from her tied-up wrists by the shower curtain, like some gutted, trussed-up animal. The loose, blue jersey she wore as a nightshirt, with the large zero on the back of it, showed in the bathroom's yellow light. Buckeye, trembling like a tree in a storm, let out several sobs of horror, stunned by the sight.
She was dead. The blood that dripped from her throat, and into the water-filled tub said as much. There was also something else in the room. Something Buckeye forcibly dragged his cringing, watery eyes to.
An unfamiliar, dark figure sat on the closed toilet seat, right next to where the corpse of his wife hung. It was male in shape, and dressed completely in black-colored clothing, which laid beneath an equally dark-colored trench coat, not exposing any flesh whatsoever. He wore a full, black hood over his head and face, and on the front of it, where his face would be, were two, white rings, reminiscent of the shape of a bullseye. In his hand was a military-styled knife, stained red, which he was busy wiping clean with a small blue hand-rag, all while he, apparently, looked in Buckeye's direction.
And the killer was speaking. The entire time he had been speaking. In a crisp, clear, emotionless voice, the masked murderer had been imitating the sound of the blood that fell from Meg's slit-open throat, and into the water of the tub.
"Drip... Drip... Drip..."
"You...?! Wha-...?! M-M-Meg...?!" the vigilante stuttered once more, tears streaming like rivers down his now pale face, as he watched the man sitting down calmly continue to clean his knife. He then looked back to where his wife hung, still dead, and he himself still in shock and terror-filled disbelief, as the man continued his verbal forgery of the liquid sound in the background.
"Drip... Drip... Drip..."
"...In a morning briefing, the district attorney's office have told reporters that Mason Dearing will be charged for nine counts of terrorism and homicide..." the television went on, in the living room, while Buckeye looked back to the monster sitting in front of him, his face curling and twisting into a snarl.
"I'LL KILL YOU! Y-YOU BASTARD!" Buckeye roared in pure rage, and he dashed forwards, arms outstretched, intent on pummeling the murderer to death, to choke the life out of him, to smash his face into bloody pulp, to do anything to avenge his wife's death. The killer simply put his free hand into the inside of his trench coat in reaction, and pulled out a gun from one of its pockets. A dark-colored semiautomatic pistol.
"Fwwwt. Puht" he calmly said, mimicking the weapon's sound, as he raised its barrel forward, from his coat, with a swift and fast, but relaxed motion, at the oncoming threat's orange-haired head, in an almost casual manner. He seemed to wait a second more before firing, as if savoring the moment.
"Blam" the masked killer finally spoke, one last time, as he finished pulling the trigger on the weapon, only mere milliseconds before the distraught hero could reach him.
"...We'll be back at ten o'clock with more on the story" the radio droned on in the background, the people behind it, like everyone else in the world, oblivious to the crime that had just been committed. Unknowing to the righteous blood that had been spilled. Never the wiser to the tragic event that had unfolded. "Now, back to live with Regis and Kelly."
Date: May 7
Location: Gotham City
Time: 11:01 PM
The dark figure of Nightwing stood on top of one of the many buildings in Gotham. He was looking over the edge, as he had been doing for the past five minutes, and sighed, as he twiddled one of his batons in one hand. As he was about to throw the metal rod into the air, he suddenly stopped when he heard the sound of a grappling hook go off, and turned, just in time, to see the red shape of Robin, or, as he personally knew, Tim Drake, land on the other side of the rooftop.
"Did Red Hood show up yet, Dick? Did I miss him?" the red-armored vigilante asked, as he walked toward Nightwing, questioning him about why they were both called to their current location.
"Not yet" his ally replied, in an impatient voice. "He's late... As usual."
"Am I the only one to notice he seems to like appearing out of nowhere whenever we have these meetings?" Drake inquired again, in an amused voice. "It's like he's trying t-
"...Be like the old man?" another voice suddenly went out, interrupting him. Nightwing and Robin turned at the same time to see a new figure, dressed in an armored, black-and-white leather jacket and pants, with a red, bird-shaped symbol painted onto its white chest and back, and the unmistakable red hood he wore over his equally red, faceless helmet. Attached to his hips were a pair of holsters, each one with the vigilante's signature pistols in them.
"I'm trying to be anything but. Sorry to break it to you."
"Why'd you call us here, Jason?" Robin asked, impatiently.
"That's "Red Hood," to you... Kid" he mocked. "And for good reason."
"And that reason would be... What, exactly?" Nightwing asked.
"Hmph. No doubt you two saw that new guy that came to town, early this morning" Jason huffed, taking a photo out from one of his jacket's pockets, and showing it to the two. On the colored picture, taken from a security camera, was a slightly blurred figure, in mid jump, wearing a large, white, body-covering cape, and an almost impractically large, presumably wooden mask of a straight-horned goat, or some other creature of that like, over his head. In one hand was an old-fashioned-looking crossbow.
"I haven't" Grayson replied. The look on Tim's masked face told just as much.
"Well, I already looked into him... Just for you two" Jason spoke again, lifting his red mask off briefly to spit off of the roof, before lowering it again, and continuing on. "The guy calls himself "Baphomet." Came out like most other vigilantes, only a month after Bruce was revealed, but in Star City, all the way in California, and quickly became popular there. I don't know jack about his real identity, though, or why he's here."
"Sounds more like a villain's name, than a hero's" Tim chuckled, folding his arms. "Got the looks to match, too. Why's he of such an interest to you, that you called us both up for this little group therapy session? You haven't done this kind of thing since Riddler thumped you on that quiz he gave you a few weeks back."
"I want him out of the city" Red Hood replied, turning his back to Nightwing and Robin. "I stayed to make sure crime has a face to be afraid of. With the flood of new vigilantes that have been appearing, counting ones with stupid getups included... Especially ones with stupid getups... The moment one gets taken down in all his five seconds of glory... Crime's going to have a reason to be unafraid again."
He looked back at the two, who were now giving him an odd look.
"And speaking of crime..." he tried to start again
"We know what you did to Black Mask" Grayson suddenly interrupted. "And we know that he just came out of the hospital. After you threw him from that window a month ago, I thought you'd be done with him. Don't tell me you plan on finishing the job..."
"Sionis has it coming, Nightwing" Jason spoke. "You're both free to stop me, but I'm using lethal force against any that try to save his worthless hide. That includes using it against you two."
"We're not going to stop you" Tim said. "We're just... Hoping you'll reconsider what you have planned. What would Bruce think-"
"I'm not Batman!" Red Hood snapped, before brandishing one of his large pistols, letting the other two look at its silver sheen reflect the moonlight. "This... This is what he should have been doing when he first started!" he said again, shaking the weapon around. "This is what he should have been doing the entire time! Instead, he lets his prey live another day. To have another "chance at life." What he never bothered to realize is that the scum lurking on these streets will never learn..."
He holstered the weapon, and looked back at the two other vigilantes, his face behind his mask calming down, as he exhaled.
"...And that's also why I work alone. Nobody to hold me back. Nobody to get in my way."
"Sometimes, its those who get in your way and hold you back that make the better decisions" Nightwing scoffed, getting smirk out of Robin.
"Just get rid of Baphomet before I put a bullet in his head..." he groaned. He turned and walked to the building's edge, ready to jump off it, before he suddenly stopped, and turned back to Robin.
"Oh, and Tim..." Jason started again.
"Yeah?" the boy wonder asked in reply.
"Could you... Maybe say hi to Barbara for me?" he asked. "I haven't had the chance to say it myself to her in a while. Gangs don't sleep, and neither do I."
"Umm... Sure" he replied, in a slightly uneasy manner.
"Thanks" the Red Hood spoke a last time, in a sincere voice, before jumping from the building, activating his grappling hook, and swinging out of sight.