A woman appeared in a warehouse by the docks. She shared a few words with a group of shady men. That is all.
He staggered away from the former inhabitant of the house, his hands guiding him along the walls. His victim had an exquisite look of terror, the one people wore when they disappeared into themselves. But Jonathan Crane could not savor it. He was still shaken. He thought he'd purged himself of his fear. He'd experimented on himself a dozen times and his immunity to the toxin grew with every try. He'd seen her time and again, and he had been unmoved. He had laughed in her scowling face, let her claws rake over him without flinching. But now…she had come back in all her horrifying glory.
He pushed open the door to the bathroom, a wretched room that made the Gotham sewers seem clean. He threw the mask down, put his hands under the faucet and splashed his face with the lukewarm, brown water. The toxin was still affecting him, the air heavy with her presence, that disgusting smell of stale perfume.
He raised his head and stared into the cracked mirror. Before his eyes his own reflection flickered, sneering and scowling at him, berating him in a thousand parched voices. She was inside him now. Her claws would never let go.
He retched and heaved into the sink, the contents of his stomach seemingly cleansing the disgusting utility. He turned the faucet and watched it swirl down. He looked back up.
It was true. He was everything she said and more. A failure. A pathetic excuse for a man. The dream had been so close, he had but to reach out and grasp it. But he had failed. And there she stood in the mirror, her cold voice ripping into him as he shivered.
A failure.
He gnashed his teeth as she disappeared again, the voice echoing from inside his head. He clenched his fists, the nails digging into his flesh. He growled at the melting mirror, his chest heaving.
Then something strange happened. His reflection slowly faded and something else appeared. He was watching from high up in the sky, looking down at a tree, mist covering the ground from his eyes.
A man hung from the tree, a noose around his neck. He looked vaguely familiar. There was an obscenely long, pointy hat on his head, blacker than the night itself. Hair of a sickly color stuck out from underneath, his clothing was dark and tattered.
The winds blew stronger and the mist curled away from the man. A wicked spear was lodged in his chest.
Jonathan breathed shakily, fogging up the glass and the vision.
"Who are you?" he whispered to the mirror.
The man raised his head, his face hidden behind an emotionless wooden mask. Shadows seemed to flit around and through the very material.
"Who… am… I? A sacrifice. From myself…to myself."
A shiver went up his spine. The voice was beautiful. Hollow, inhuman, the long hidden voice of an inanimate object.
"Here I have hung for nine long days and nine long nights."
Jonathan knew who this was. The answer was there, hiding somewhere in the murky recesses of his memories.
"A sacrifice. Myself to myself."
He could feel the room growing cold as he stared harder into the other world, the mist and the wind slowly seeping over.
"Here I hang, on that windy tree of which no man knows, from which all roots run."
As he watched, he felt the cold spreading inwards, flowing through his veins, cleansing him. Her voice slowly faded to nothing.
"Downwards I gazed. I took the answers, screaming I took them."
The hanged man raised his head and Jonathan stared into his eyes. They were cold, unfeeling, a pair of fragments chipped off a glacier and made to see. They were his own.
"And now…"
The hanged man soared upwards, tearing loose and flying limply through the air, a boneless body jerking wildly as it flew, only the masked face unmoving as it stared up at him. The screaming of the wind filled the room as he left the mirror. From inside Jonathan's head, the voice finished.
"I return."
Smiling, the Scarecrow's head raised upwards, the wind howling louder and louder in the small room as the shadows wrapped around him, infusing themselves with him.
The woman appeared in the back of a bar. She lent a helping hand in making a drink. That is all.
He stared at his reflection. Looking back at him was an old man with bags under his eyes and pallid skin. He sighed.
"You look like a fucking junkie, Gio," he told his mirror self.
He slicked back the tousled gray hair on his head.
"That ain't how great men should look."
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Satisfied with his appearance, he removed the mirror from the wall, taking it along with him and propping it up against the chair opposite his desk. He sat down in his own seat and smiled at his mirror image. He opened a drawer and pullet out a bottle of rum.
The reflection stared at the slowly filling glass in his hand with pleased eyes. They both gave a slight smile.
He raised his head and listened. He'd sent most of his bodyguards away, telling the few who remained to stay by the entrances to the mansion. He needed to be alone for this.
The room was quiet as a tomb. He fixed his tie and cleared his throat. This was it.
He raised the glass, smelled it and smiled. He held it out to the room.
"To Carmine! Whose reign we all miss."
He downed the shot and filled the glass again. He raised it to the mirror.
"To you! Ya wily old crook."
He downed it. Filled it. Raised it high up.
"To God! If ya really exist, ya old rascal."
He downed it and licked his lips. Filled it, picked a picture up off the desk, put it to his lips.
"To my wife! Whom I failed."
The glass went up, the rum burned its way down his throat. He slammed the glass down on the desk and tenderly put the picture back. He refilled the glass.
"To you, mamma. Bless your memory."
He downed it, filled it and raised it. His head slumped for a second and he swallowed thickly. He raised his head again.
"To my stillborn son."
He downed it, slammed it, filled it, raised it.
"To all the boys I've buried!"
He downed it, wiped his eye. Filled it. Raised it. Took a look around the dark room, admired the looming darkness that seemed to grow with every shot he took.
"To all the pals I've betrayed."
Down and up it went. Alcohol sloshed onto the desk. He licked his lips.
"To all the mothers I've left crying."
Slam onto the desk. Slosh into the glass.
"To dead dreams!"
Slam. Slosh. Lips quivering.
"To all the beautiful hookers of this world!"
Slam. Slosh. He cleared his throat, raised the glass.
"To my killer! Who I love more than life itself. To whom I am nothing."
Down. He paused to catch his breath. Poured another. Up. Mirthless chuckle.
"To Batman! Ya son of a bitch."
Down. Up. Glint in his eyes.
"To you, Gotham! Ya doomed, rotten jewel."
The glass slowly went down. He stood, took off his jacket, breathed. Pulled open a drawer. Poured another glass. Raised it to his lips and a pistol to his temple. Closed his eyes and pressed the gun harder to his head.
"To the bullet! To the death of the gangster!"
Downed it. Threw the glass at the mirror. Watched the shards scatter to the floor.
Pulled the trigger.
The woman appeared in the men's restroom at a fancy restaurant downtown. A man entered. She smiled at him. That is all.
Jimmy Dunne's eyes slowly opened. His head throbbed painfully. He shivered slightly. And something was biting into his wrists.
With a jerk, he regained full consciousness. His blood ran cold.
He could move neither hand nor foot, his arms fastened to the ceiling, the cuffs on his wrists digging into flesh. A cold, clammy sweat covered his skin.
He shuddered as he looked around the room. It was bright, harsh lights beaming down on the sterile environment. The walls were white, except for a few mysterious splatters scattered here and there. A number of metal boxes were sitting in the corner. There was a chair not far from him, a suit jacket draped over the back.
Right in front of his eyes was the owner. He wore a white shirt with suspenders and black pants. The back of his head wasn't visible, it was covered by some sort of mask. He was busying himself with a black bag on the table in front of him.
Jimmy swallowed thickly. He knew what was going to happen.
"I know what you're thinking," the masked man began.
He didn't turn around as he spoke.
"You're thinking: This is the end. And you're right."
Jimmy exhaled, his breath shuddering.
"And yes, it will be painful."
The man picked a knife out of the bag and laid it on the table.
"You can try to keep from screaming, try to be tough, I don't mind. But if it gets too much, I won't think any lesser of you for letting loose. I already think of you as nothing."
Pliers appeared from the bag and were laid beside the knife.
"You are a message. To show your friends what will become of them."
A drill left the bag and was lined up with the other tools.
"There may be others who know more about fear, who have dedicated their lives to it even, but I am no amateur."
A small plastic bag with nails was pulled out, followed by a hammer.
"But my specialty is pain. Nothing saps a man's will like seeing someone he knows with a thousand grisly marks on him. They see you and they can't help but notice every little scratch, imagine every little horror you endured."
A saw emerged from the bag.
"You will show them what they are up against."
A cattle prod rose from the container.
"Everyone will know that I'm serious. No theatrics, no clowns, no stupid riddles. Just death. Death and pain."
He pointed to the small metal boxes in the corner.
"Those will be your final resting place. Delivered to your various friends."
He turned around and walked up to Jimmy. The mask was pitch black, resembling a skull. Red eyes peered out from the slits of the skull's eyes.
"Heheh. I t-thought you said no theatrics. You look ridiculous, mate."
The man stared at him.
"Insulting me is unwise, mate. You have the lives of other people to worry about. You have a family. A mother, a sister."
He chuckled, the rumbling sound echoing slightly in the empty room.
"Convinced? Smart man."
The sweat kept pouring off of Jimmy's forehead.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man stepped closer.
"To you, I am death."
He turned around and started rummaging through the bag again.
"That's what masks are for."
He picked the knife up from the table and turned around.
"To become someone else, something more. This mask is who I am now. Without it…"
He removed the mask. Underneath was an ordinarily looking man, apart from the red eyes.
"…I am a man. A man who had a life. Twenty years of uneventful normalcy. I was nothing. But now…"
He put the mask back on. It almost seemed like the mask was smiling. The man moved closer, the knife gleaming in the harsh light.
"I am Black Mask. Another's death marked my birth, my mask carved from his coffin. My name means death, fear and suffering. I am the face of the city."
A woman appeared in the bedroom of a mansion. She planted a kiss on a sleeping man's cheek. That is all.
The heavy oak door of Elsep's office loomed before him. Judging from what he had seen, the Batman was about to face something straight from a nightmare.
He pushed the door open.
By the desk was Dr. Elsep, his dull eyes staring at the intruder. His body was enjoined with a green mass, above him a gaping maw. The office was filled with more slithering vines.
Batman stepped inside.
The vines started, crawling slowly towards him. He raised a trio of batarangs and let loose, cutting three vines in half. The rest kept coming, picking up speed.
The Batman took a step back and raised more batarangs. He threw another and another, but each throw produced less results. The vines coming at him now were thicker, too thick for his weapons to cut through them in one blow.
He ran from the door, the vines following. A few went on and closed the door, curling themselves around the doorknob.
One caught the end of his cape, trapping it in a vice-like grip. He slashed away with his wrist blades, freeing himself just as another caught hold of his left leg.
He tore free before the others could get at him, but not without a sacrifice. His boot was torn off his foot as he sprung free, the Batman reduced to an uneven gait with just one shoe.
He couldn't waste any more time. He jumped on top of the desk, stabbing a batarang deep into the green mass the doctor was emerged in. He felt the doctor's hands clasp around him.
"Easy, I'll get you out."
He sliced through the moist mass, sawing frantically, trying to get the man out. A squelching sound filled the room as he kept cutting and cutting, sticky liquid spurting in great volumes onto the dark knight.
Hopeful that he had cut through enough of the surrounding tissue that he could get the man out, the Batman began to pull, even as the thick tendrils crawled up his legs.
He gave a mighty heave and with a ripping sound they both fell back onto the floor.
Batman's eyes grew wide as the vines slowly started to envelop them. He was holding a dead man's torso, the formerly dull eyes now completely devoid of life. He disappeared under a writhing mass of life.
He punched a hand through the gaps between the vines, trying to ignore the pain flaring in his other arm as the vines squeezed. He pulled the trigger and was forcefully dragged out of the heap and up to the ceiling, his cape tearing off completely and a glove getting left behind as he blasted upwards.
He let go of the grapple and fell to the floor just a few feet away from the monstrosities. They began branching out, feeling for him along the floor. His eyes flickered between the corpse of Dr. Elsep and the creature by the desk as recognition hit him. He had not killed the man. He was already dead, somehow kept alive by the plant.
He wasted no time, but ran to the gaping maw of the gigantic plant and threw a bat-explosive down the hungry mouth.
He turned and ran, slashed through the vines barring the door and ran down the hall, a loud explosion making the floor shake.
The slimy knight made his lumbering way down the corridor, limping slightly from both bruises and a shortage of boots.
The seething rage of the Mad Hatter bubbled like melting sealing wax as he stared at the looming mansion of the filthy, traitorous gangster.
Refusing to give in to temptation, Hatter decided to forgo his manners and skipped ringing the doorbell. Instead he turned around, his shoes soaking up blood off the ground.
His servants made their way to the door at his command, stepping over the corpses of two unfortunate bodyguards to ram through the door.
After try upon try, the door finally gave way. The Mad Hatter stepped through.
Once inside they were not met by a great force. There was no one, in fact.
Puzzled, but not displeased, the Mad Hatter ventured onwards, his men in tow.
After room after room of empty, they finally reached a place that oozed foreboding. He pushed the door open with a wide smile on his face, striding into the room with all the purpose of a great hero of old.
But his good mood evaporated quickly.
There sat the rat, broken glass and blood beautifying the floor. His head was a mess. Thinking too hard was always a danger, even for imbeciles, this the Hatter knew.
He leaned closer to inspect the man, his gloved fingers drumming on the desk separating them.
"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late."
He checked his watch as he turned around.
"I'm late, I'm late. Best leave."
They walked back the way they came, Hatter thinking hard.
"bUt NOt tOO hArd!" he told the room.
His righteous anger would just have to grow and wait until some other idea broke into his head. Yes, he'd have to trust his luck.
Hatters did not plan, after all. They went mad.
The fresh air caressed the Riddler's face as he walked further and further away from the exit. The familiar stench of the city filled his nostrils, coaxing out a smile.
"Home, sweet home," he muttered to himself as he trudged over the grass lane separating him from the parking lot. The doctors no doubt thought a patch of green grass might prove relaxing. They were absolutely right. To be met with more dull gray after his disturbingly easy escape would probably have driven him mad.
The alluring forest of potential getaway cars drew closer with every step. He was mere seconds away.
He stopped and threw out his hands, announcing his presence to the air and his wonderful little city.
"I'm back! And I'll never leave you again."
His declaration was interrupted by a shout coming from far behind him. He slowly turned around to see Joan by the exit, a gun in her hand.
"Edward! Stop or I'll shoot!"
He scratched his head and muttered to himself.
"Since when do you even own a gun?"
It didn't matter. He'd had cops shoot at him from a shorter distance without hitting.
He turned and ran, a smile tugging at his lips.
A crack filled the air, followed by a shrill scream.
Emily raised her throbbing head, rubbing at her eyes. She was lying on the street, not far from the curb. No-one was in sight, the sun shining brightly down on the empty road. She moaned as she raised herself into a sitting position. Her clothes were even filthier than her asphalt bed.
Her eyes wandered over to a spot of vomit not far from her and she curled her lip. Then her eyes flew wide open, as it all came back to her. The policemen, the chase, the nightmare, everything. And the hug.
The sun beamed at her face and she made a strange sound, something between a cough and a sneeze.
Then it broke loose and she laughed freely to the summer sky.
Her whole body rippled with numb, comforting pain.
It didn't make any sense, but she knew what she wanted to do.
She laughed harder, the notion that she'd hugged the Scarecrow proving too much.
She'd hugged her tormentor, the one she had wanted to kill for days now. And it had stopped him. The man was hopelessly insane. She'd seen his file, and now she believed everything. He really was broken.
It didn't make any sense, she knew that. But she was going to save him from himself. He needed help. And she was going to make sure he got it. She would bring him back to Arkham, no matter what she had to endure.
Gordon traced a finger along his plastic cup, looking down at the cold coffee with displeasure. He let go with a sigh, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. He squirmed in his clothes, aware of the stench of sweat and cigarettes that hung heavy on him.
But the man on the other side of the table was even worse off. He looked cracked, as if his personality had broken in two, the wedge of guilt and fear driven between the two parts that made up officer Randall.
His eyes were red and his hands shook and he had bitten his nails and he had scratched at his neck long enough for it to need bandages. He couldn't look into anyone's eyes for longer than a few seconds. He was nothing but a shadow of himself.
They didn't even know if he actually had done anything wrong. Only his own confession incriminated him. But the events had the park indicated there was at least some truth in his story, unless it had all been an unbelievable coincidence.
"There was no short man in blue there, Randall."
He looked up but almost immediately lowered his gaze without responding.
"There was someone else, however. A grouped of former hobos, armed to the teeth. And two women and a man who got away. One of the women died. And something had been…done to her. We don't even know how she stayed alive that way."
Randall put his hands in front of his eyes, head bowed down.
"When you were there, did you see…any sort of…surgery, I guess it would look like.
He raised his head, his hopeless eyes staring up at the Commissioner.
"No, sir."
Gordon sighed.
"But, sir, you have to find Murphy. And take off his hat. It's all in the hats, sir, I swear it, sir, I swear it! It's the hats!"
He quieted down and Gordon cleared his throat.
"We know, Randall. We're trying to figure out what it is."
He stood and gave the other man a reassuring smile as he opened the door.
"Don't worry. We'll sort this all out. And we'll find Murphy."
The door to the interrogation room clicked shut behind him and Gordon wiped at his brow. He would find no peace, however. A rookie briskly walked up to him, a worried look on his face.
"Sir? We've got a situation."
They started walking down the corridor, towards Gordon's office.
"What now?"
The rookie swallowed, licked his lips nervously.
"Reports from all over the city of gunfire. Dozens of casualties, all known criminals from the Italian and the Irish mobs. It looks like the beginning of a gang war."
Gordon could feel a headache starting as he clenched his fists.
"Now of all times," he looked at the rookie's face and quickly added: "Please tell me that's all."
The rookie licked his lips again.
"Uh, not quite, sir. Bullock actually found a, um, severed hand fastened to the door of his car."
Gordon's eyes bulged. He could feel his blood boiling.
"What's wrong with them?" he shouted at no one in particular, "What the hell's happened to this city?"
Mr. Pallottola lies in a pool of blood on the dusty floor of a warehouse by the docks, a group of his shady men lying scattered around him with countless bullet holes. There is a tattoo on one traitor's arm, all but the words "This we'll defend" obscured.
Mr. Bicchierino sits prone in his seat at the bar, his face lying against the sticky surface of the table. In the back, the bartender's blood swirls lazily down a drain.
Mr. Pulito sits by the sinks in the restaurant's men's room with a knife in his gut. The light of the electric watch on his wrist slowly flickers, then dies.
Mr. Sogno hangs from a noose of bedsheets, moving slowly in the wind from the open window. There is a letter on his nightstand, marked by red lipstick. Underneath it lies the Gotham Post, none of the paper visible apart from the pondering headline: "Quarantine?"
AN: Couldn't think of any credible Italian-sounding names, so I decided to get cute.
Don't really know what the second most powerful mob in Gotham should be, so I went with another I word.
Black Mask doesn't actually have red eyes, they're lenses. Because even dirty bastards like feeling pretty.
Almost no Ivy today. At least she managed to kill some people, even if she got about 8 lines.
I'm disappointed in this chapter, but after days of annoyance at its refusal to work like I want it to, I've given up on it. It will just have to do. Batman's scene didn't turn out squicky at all, but such is life.
Much respect if you can see what Scarecrow's mirror vision is imitating.
Thanks to a very wonderful person, I have now regained my precious line breaks, as I'm sure you've noticed and exclaimed loudly in glee over.
Je bois is a song with Charles Aznavour.