Early Summer on Crest Hill was typically accompanied by seasonable warmth and relatively clear weather. The air was fresh here, comfortably upwind of Gotham City's industrial pollution and urban blight, and carried the faint crisp scent of sea salt rising up from the cliffside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. This made it a popular route for cyclists and fitness nuts who would travel up and down the looping road that connected to Midtown Gotham from the west and the upper middle-class suburbs to the south.

This landform hosted the estates of Gotham's wealthy elite, the largest and most well known of them was Wayne Manor, a stately complex of Gothic and castellated architecture situated close to the seaside crags to the east.

Billionaire playboy philanthropist Bruce Wayne was the last remaining heir to the Wayne family, following his parents tragic murder almost twenty years ago. In the public eye he was just your normal man with far too much money, but in secret the reality was quite a bit more complex.

Underneath the estate was a network of caves, which served as the headquarters of the most feared (up until recently) vigilante in Gotham. Batman.

Batman was hard at work going over the crime scene photos he had taken at the Twin Cities Bank earlier that evening. The mosaic of screens connected to the Bat Computer were flooded with details on the crime. One of the screens had the mugshots of Harvey Dent and his unfortunate criminal and medical history on it. Another was a list of every member of his gang that had been killed today, or at least the ones that could be identified.

Bruce took a sip of lukewarm coffee from the batmug and set it down on the batcoaster.

The dark knight heard footsteps behind him and turned his head to see Alfred approaching, his face covered by a respirator, and his tailored suit concealed by a heavy grey poncho. In his hands he carried a tray with a fresh thermos of batcoffee resting upon it.

"Alfred?" Batman said, voice slightly slurred. "Why are you wearing that?"

"This cave is unsanitary," the butler calmly replied, "The bats and their... leavings have made this place unsuitable for human habitation."

"The bats are not the problem Alfred," Batman replied somewhat defensively.

"With respect master Bruce. The elevated methane levels are very much a cause for concern, it is only a matter of time before it becomes the death of us."

"Further investigation is needed..." Batman muttered as he stared back into the glowing batscreens of the batcomputer.

"Any progress on identifying this mystery hero?" Alfred asked.

"This is not a hero," Batman said, "He's a dangerous psychopath, and this is only the beginning."

"How are you so sure it is a 'he?' master Bruce?"

"The holes in the wall give a rough outline of the killer's size and build, he is at least seven feet tall and likely weighs more than a quarter ton. He is also fast, very fast."

"How can a chap so large move around quickly?" Alfred inquired further, setting the tray on the batdesk.

"Look at these photos," Batman answered. Images of corpses flooded the scene, savaged and barely recognizable, "The shell casings are gathered all around the bodies, bullet holes all over the lobby. Whoever did this hit them so quickly they never had the chance to escape."

"Good Lord..." Alfred said, staring at the scenes of carnage, "What manner of monster are we dealing with?"

"The killer used a variety of methods to murder Harvey Dent and his gang. Some of the victims died to acute toxicity, claws coated with an incredibly potent form of neurotoxin, the deadliest I have ever encountered. We are dealing with a professional."

Looking again at the extensive list of bodily mutilations on the autopsy reports, Alfred sighed. "Master Bruce, I make no slight to your capabilities; but I believe you should reconsider confronting this madman. He could very well be the death of you."

"I have drawn the line, innocent or guilty I am bound to protect everyone in this city. I will not cross that line, and neither shall anyone else." Batman gritted out, standing up from the batchair. "Cancel Bruce Wayne's appointments for the day Alfred, this is far more important."


CIXIV had always enjoyed the simplicity of his existence. There was no need to question, no call to doubt, and no excuse to hesitate – there was only the will of the Emperor. He felt no regrets for the loss of his humanity, mourned not for the flesh that was taken, questioned not the cybernetics given; it was worth it – all of it.

He had never before felt so lost.

The kitchen was no longer in the same mess he had left it in; the dismantled components of multiple appliances that littered the vinyl covered floor had been joined by the discarded contents of the refrigerator. The insane cocktail of drugs masquerading as a living being was now scrunched up inside the vacated food storage device, knees tucked into chest with both arms and shaking like a Quaker.

'Primary eliminated go to sleep-rest-and-recover-and-hibernate-praise the God-Emperor.' the assassin's pious soul cried out for the cold embrace of the stasis crypt. When a Eversor assassin completed it's mission, the creature would be irresistibly drawn to a pre-planned extraction point where a retrieval pod would be waiting for it, the assassin would instinctively place itself inside to be immediately sedated by the machinery within; an Officio recovery team would then take possession of the pod and the assassin.

CIXIV had been deployed hundreds of times, and on each occasion there had been an extraction plan, he would be pumped with enough macrotranquilizers to euthanize a space marine and awaken again inside a drop pod falling towards a different world for a different Primary for the same purpose. Seven years of endless butchery spread out over the course of a millennium.

And now, when this constant factor in his life had been disrupted, he felt only frenzied desperation.

"Angel? Why are you in the fridge?"

He looked up and focused on her. Listened to her heartbeat and perceived her stress. Ran chemical analysis and knew how she would taste. A dozen bookmarked killpoints flashed through his mind. But the will to eliminate her did not arise – yet.

"Eversor Dictum #1196. Following successful completion of objectives, unit must proceed to extraction zone and deactivate for retrieval." CIXIV responded mechanically.

"You are tired?" She asked.

"Negative. Blood sugar levels are automatically maintained at optimum levels, lactic recovery rate instantaneous. I cannot be stopped."

He could not go to sleep unassisted either. The same chemicals that kept him alive induced severe chronic insomnia, and the adrenal ducts in his brain further prohibited him from entering deep sleep without a special drug that was now beyond his reach.

"You can't go to bed?"

"Affirmative," he hissed.

Millie was about to respond when a knock came at the door. CIXIV immediately uncoiled himself from the fridge and stood alert. Emperor... thank you for this distraction.

The assassin made a beeline for the apartment door. Instead of turning the knob, the Eversor thrust his fingers into the gap between the door and frame, and then simply tore it off the hinges. Standing in front of him, a diminutive 5'5 to his 7'6 was a female adolecent.

"Hi, Sara! This is my friend! He's an angel!" Millie called out from behind the towering cyborg. Millie's babysitter stood transfixed in absolute shock as she gazed upon brutality incarnate. Eyes widening as it reached out to her with a claw that made Freddy Krueger look like a total pansy. She ripped out a scream of mortal terror and began running down the hall for the exit.

'Pursue and subjugate!' The God-Emperor snapped in his brain.

Not missing a beat, the assassin bounded into the hall in pursuit. Due to having dialed down his infusion settings, the assassin was relatively more sluggish than usual. His black sabatons crashed on the floor under the weight of his bionics as he built up momentum. The girl on the other hand was sprinting as if her life depended on it... which it kind of did.

'Run-run-run-catch-and-maim-and-interrogate! Praise the God-Emperor.' The voice in the assassin's chemical-besotted brain screamed at maximum volume.

'Twin-heads-one-eye-prettybirdprettybird-catch-and-hug-and-incapacitate! PRAISE!'

"Somebody help me!" Sara screamed at the top of her lungs.

A door further down the hall opened and a grouchy old man stepped out, "What in the hell is this noise abou-?" He was silenced by a frantic teenager rushing by him, followed by a black blur that struck him a glancing blow, spraying everything around him bright red. He looked down dumbly to see his intestines spooling out of his abdomen like an unwinding garden hose, clutched in the grasp of the girl's pursuer. He collapsed dead as a doornail seconds later.

Sara pushed the doors open and stumbled into the alley, she did not spare a moment to look behind her as she raced towards the street. Not thinking to look both ways, Sara made a break for the other side. She did not see the bus coming.


Beginning of the Second Day

CIXIV stood on the rooftop of the apartment building, eyes trained upon the night sky. His advanced optics easily pierced the ambient light pollution of the city to reveal the stars hanging overhead. What he saw troubled him.

He knew these stars.

The assassin focused on one collection, together they resembled a man. Oron.

Another that vaguely resembled an archer. Saggitary.

A line of stars that reminded him of a serpent. Drakho.

Every assassin knew these hallowed constellations. There was only one place in the entire Imperium where one could view these heavenly bodies from such a perfect angle.

Holy Terra.

But that was impossible.

His augmented eyes fixed upon the bright moon overhead. The Luna he remembered was a civilized world in it's own right with a population of seventeen-billion souls, this celestial imposter was frighteningly bare of any urban growth, there was nothing up there. The void stations, the starforts, planetary defense platforms, and Battlefleet Solar – everything that should have been, was gone. How does the largest and most heavily fortified orbital defense grid in the galaxy just vanish?

And there was this planet itself, which was presumably the Cradle of Mankind. Terra was an ecumenopolis, its entire surface blistered with towering hive spires that went as high as the exosphere. The horizon was completely occluded by urban mega-structures plated in gold, and the skies were thick with heavy smog (although the Terran Restoration Project was slowly changing that). Not so for this world.

Gotham City slightly resembled the common industrial urban landscape that was often found on Imperial civilized worlds, it almost reminded him of the outskirting urban zones of Scintilla's Hive cities.

"Can you see the stars angel?" Millie asked next to him, "I can't see any." The tertiary obviously lacked ocular filters to pierce the light pollution generated by the cityscape.

"Affirmative..." the assassin rasped.

"Do think Sara is okay?"

CIXIV recalled the earlier image of the adolescent female being thrown several feet, her body landing in a heap, resting in an unnatural angle, blood on the asphalt.

"Negative." the bluntness of the reply caused the girl to look down and pull her knees closer to her chest – obviously troubled. "I hope she will get better..."

Choosing not the respond, CIXIV reached down and wrapped an arm around her waist before jumping off the roof. Millie gasped in shock as the sensation of freefall hit her, before the assassin's boots hit the pavement, legs bending and back bowing to absorb the force of the fall.

Entering the hab via assassin-shaped hole in the wall, CIXIV set Millie down in the living room and promptly turned to leave.

"Wait! Angel, where are you going?!" Millie cried out, distraught at the idea of him leaving again.

"Must... punish... sin. Not much time left. Praisepraisepraise..." he answered cryptically.

"Don't go!" but it was already too late, CIXIV was out the hole in an eyeblink and once more on the hunt.


On the other side of the street, a pair of eyes glimpsed a shadow peeling away from the early morning darkness.

"The target has left the apartment," he spoke into a device fixed to his coat's lapel.

"And the objective?"

"All alone."

"Splendid. Do I need to remind you what to do next?" the voice asked, narcissistic condescension dripping through the line.

"No need, I have everything under control." the man answered. With one last look at the building, he immediately set to work.


After leaving the guano encrusted rodent hole called the Batcave, Pennyworth Alfred slipped out of the slightly defiled poncho and air can, revealing the finely pressed tailored suit and bow-tie beneath, leaving them just inside the area immediately after the secret entrance behind the study's antique grandfather clock.

He saw Richard Grayson, ward of Bruce Wayne and apprentice to Batman working at a small cloth covered table covered in tiny figures, along with several small plastic pots of paint in various colors and shades.

"Any luck?" the Boy Wonder asked without looking up.

"Sadly, no. Master Bruce is very... attached to his furry friends," the aged butler answered sadly, "If the problem is not taken care of soon, it may begin to take a serious toll on his health."

"He claims to have built up a resistance to the methane, I don't believe him," Richard agreed, "And I am tired of holding my breath down there."

"He is not one to admit when we have a pest problem, especially when said pest is the totem he has chosen to identify himself with, he cannot bring himself to get rid of them."

"He has always been stubborn," Richard responded crossly, "He still doesn't take me seriously when I talk about joining the Justice League."

"He is right to hesitate Master Richard, the League's work is dangerous."

Richard muttered something under his breath as he turned his attention back to his current task.

"A new hobby, Master Richard?" Alfred inquired.

"Painting my Warmachine army. I am planning to take it to an match next month."

"Warmachine?"

"A tabletop war game. I play Protectorate of Menoth, an country of religious extremists."

"So this game setting is rather grim I take it?" Alfred observed.

"I cannot imagine a universe more bleak than this one."


It was rare when Roxanne "Roxy Rocket" Sutton felt fear – let alone the unbridled terror which now possessed her. Roxanne was formerly a stunt double for a Hollywood actress. Her employment was terminated after she deliberately tried to make her stunts so dangerous that no company would dare insure her. Unemployed, but not lacking in thirst for ever greater thrills, Sutton descended into a life of thievery, primarily stealing jewels for the Penguin. She did not have a rap sheet nearly as colorful as other criminals in Gotham. She was always the only one at risk. Batman was a risk taker as well, as evidenced by his death defying attempts to catch her in epic aerial chases, it had gotten to the point where she developed a serious crush on the caped crusader. But alas, instead of returning her affections she was tossed to the tender mercies of Arkham Asylum. On the bright side, the chases were still fun.

Now she was being chased again. And this time fun was the furthest thing from her mind. She was running for her life.

It was horror that preceded the terror initially. She had entered a jewelery store from an alley entrance for some quick cash, only to find that some other hooligans had the same idea. They were all dead. Bodies carved to pieces, some literally beaten into an unrecognizable pulp, the scent of voided bowels and spilled blood corrupted the air. Then she saw the eyes, those horrible red eyes set into a leering skull, towering over her upon a body that seemed to blend in with the shadows. Then it stepped towards her...

Roxanne had bolted out the door shrieking bloody murder and made a dash for her rocket parked nearby. She hopped onto the rocket and turned the ignition causing the combustion chamber to flare to life and a tail of exhaust to flare out the nozzle. She immediately floored the accelerator...

… only to come to a sudden stop.

Roxanne's head struck the dashboard hard. Dazed she felt a strong hand grasp her by the back of the neck. The monstrous killer had seized the rocket with it's clawed hand, effortlessly holding her signature vehicle in place even as his other hoisted her up like a prize-winning trout.

Then he slammed her to the ground.

Roxanne cried out as her face was planted into the filthy alley pavement with enough force to jar five teeth out of her head.

He picked her up again, holding her up in line to the glowing nozzle at the back of her rocket.

"Noh... noh!" the criminal cried, realizing his intention.

Roxanne Sutton died screaming as the Eversor forced her face into the searing jetwash like a Catachan hotdog; her flesh peeled, blackened, and melted from her still shrieking skull. Not every tertiary got to experience the sensation of their cerebral fluids boil within the confines of their cranium. Roxy was one of the lucky heretics. Her vital signs ceased after ten seconds.


Half an hour later, police cars were stationed on the street outside the alley. Commissioner Gordon pulled up just as the EMT's were preparing to load a tarp covered stretcher into the back of an ambulance.

Getting out of his car, Gordon walked over to them.

"Dead?" he asked bluntly.

Not saying anything the EMT pulled back the top of the tarp, revealing a skull decorated with a mosaic of raw red skin, charred flesh, and the molten remains of a latex cap.

The commissioner scrunched his face as he took in the aroma of burnt human meat and he took an involuntary step back. "As you were."

Walking past he found Harvey Bullock standing in the alley.

"What's the latest?" He asked.

"Indigestion," Inspector Bullock responded, "Those Carolina Reapers are serious business, had to go through a whole tub of icecream to make it better... did I mention that I am lactose intolerant?"

"I am becoming bullshit intolerant, now sell it to me straight."

"Ralph Winger and his crew were found in pieces by the shop manager, we found Sutton here while securing the scene, someone set her head on fire."

"And her rocket?" Gordon inquired.

"Gone."


Returning to his temporary base on his hijacked rocket, CIXIV flew into the alley and through one of the holes in the living room, incinerating a large patch of carpet as he turned off the gas. Dismounting he awaited the tertiary's squeal of joy at his return.

Nothing came.

The Eversor fired up the sentinel array with a mental impulse, scanning for signs of life and finding none.

A high pitched beep coming from Millie's room immediately put him on guard, having not heard it inside this premises. Drawing his bolt pistol out, CIXIV made for the flower sticker covered door. Twisting the knob he threw the door open.

CIXIV immediately had his face blasted with green and black confetti launched by an array of party poppers on the ceiling. This annoyance was immediately followed by an even greater one in the form of an arrogant voice.

"Well, well, well. Look at you; big, bad, and too stupid to not fall into such a simple trap." The Imperial assassin's gaze zeroed in on the source of the contemptuous commentary, he spotted a camera mounted on a tripod, with a flat screen fixed to the legs with an image of a man wearing a green suit and hat adorned with question marks.

"Identify yourself!" CIXIV hissed.

"I am your intellectual superior, I am everything that you can never strive to be, I am the greatest mind in the world. But for the sake of labels you may call me the Riddler."

The assassin growled in response.

"Such eloquence, it almost makes me feel sorry for the failure I am about to impose on you. You see I have been watching you, ever since the Twin Cities Bank, I have seen your disorderly rampages and listened to your maddened bleating as you carved through one obstacle after another. And in that time I have seen you for what you are; despite your obvious physical power, you are nothing more than a misguided animal that is at a loss as to what to do with itself, it is quite sad really."

The assassin ripped out a hateful snarl.

"Oh, have I bruised your sacred feelings? Shame on me, I am such a horrible, horrible person!" he cried out in false dismay, "But that is not the worst part. I have separated you from your only friend in the world."

The image on the screen panned left and centered on a very familiar face, tied to a chair with a gag wrapped over her mouth. Her eyes showed fear, anxiety, pleading. This scum had taken his tertiary captive.

"Surprised?" the camera image centered back on the Riddler, a self-satisfied smirk on his gangly face. "You really should not leave children unattended."

The assassin screamed in fury at the man behind the screen.

"Throwing a tantrum will not avail you. This trial requires elegance and subtlety, traits that are laughably outside your ability. So, riddle me thi-"

SMASH!

The camera and screen shattered under the unrelenting fists of the Eversor assassin, vox amplified howls carrying the Catechisms of Hate across downtown Gotham.

His handler had been compromised.


AN/: Sorry for being late. Still fighting depression. Not sure if I did this chapter right. Also, Warmachine reference, hang me.