Disclaimer: I do not know the Muffin Man.
"Pour the wine,
And raise a cup.
Drink up brothers, you know how,
And spill a drop
For Orpheus
Wherever he is now."
- 'We Raise Our Cups', Hadestown Original Cast Recording
CHAPTER ONE: In Which Our Main Character Awakes
Then man known as Mister Wick to some, the Boogeyman to others, and John to a select few, closed his eyes for the last time underneath a clouded sky.
And immediately opened them again inside a cramped pitch-black coffin.
A pine one, to be exact. He would know; he'd been buried in one before. And it looked like he was about to repeat the experience of breaking out.
By rights he should've been dead. That many bullets from Winston alone might've done the job; the drop on top of that should've made it a done deal. Hell, even his enemies had apparently written him off if they'd bothered to bury him properly. Yet here he was.
Figures. Everyone knew you couldn't kill the Boogeyman.
He twisted to try and gain some leverage to pop the coffin lid off...and immediately froze. Something was very wrong with his body. It was too small, for one. He was about six inches shorter than he should've been. For another, all his major muscle groups seemed to have shrunk and then been stretched back out in unfamiliar ways. Like a gymnast instead of an assassin.
Slowly he maneuvered his right hand around to his left for an inspection. What he found only confirmed his worst fears: his missing finger had somehow miraculously reappeared.
This wasn't his body.
What the hell had they done to him?
No sooner had he asked the question when he promptly ignored looking for an answer; the priority here was getting above ground. He could figure everything else out later.
The lid to the coffin yielded to his efforts and came free with a tremendous CRACK. He waited a short minute to regain his breath, then slowly began making his way upward.
He emerged in a graveyard. An old one too, by the looks of things. Fallen down monuments, cracked tombstones, eroded engravings. As a matter of fact, the only headstone that seemed to be in any kind of shape was the one over the grave he'd just emerged from.
Jason Todd, it read. A Good Soldier.
Had that been the name of this body's previous owner? Had his brain been transplanted into the corpse of this Jason Todd, whoever he was? Doubtful. He would've woken up in some kind of medical facility if that were the case.
He'd hadn't always been a good Son, but he'd tried to be. Maybe God had offered him a second chance. Either that, or this was Hell. Which was the much more likely option, now that he thought about it.
Dusting himself off, he took stock of what he had apparently been buried with. One gray Armani suit, made in a style popular twenty-five years ago. Yet the thing looked like it was barely three years old at most, even accounting for decomposition. The shoes were much the same. Black tie, black socks, black belt. White shirt. No wallet, no keys, no nothing. Except a watch: a particularly nice one, too. Clockwork. Engraved on the front with a relief of some sort of bird. Further inspection revealed it as a robin. There was no name.
His stomach grumbled. Right; first order of business, find some food. Actually, make that the second order of business. First order was getting some money to pay for the food. If this wasn't Hell (and it certainly wasn't Heaven), he'd rather not draw attention from the local authorities. Yet, anyway.
If he could find a pawnshop, he'd be set…
He found one.
Apparently, he was in 'Gotham', wherever that was. Some perversion of the New York he knew. Maybe this was Purgatory; it certainly had all the aspects you'd expect to find in that sort of place. It would make perfect sense for Purgatory to be a darker, flipped version of the regular world.
That went for the pawnshops as well.
Once he'd realized the shop doubled as a consignment store, he'd traded in his Armani outfit as well for a new wardrobe and a few other goods. He was now donned in a pair of yellow Timberland boots, Wrangler blue jeans, some military surplus knockoff OD green jacket, and red henley shirt. A black ski mask and nondescript butterfly knife were also tucked into his pockets, just in case.
Nice to know Waffle House was still a thing in...wherever this was. He'd loaded up on as much protein as he possibly could, then downed it all with orange juice and coffee. There was no telling when he'd get to eat next, so he made sure to grab some sausage to go. Now? He was currently trudging his way down the street looking for the one thing every metropolitan area was bound to have: a public library.
As he walked, he observed. It appeared that 'Gotham' was running about twenty plus years behind the times, judging by the outfits he saw on every street corner. There was a distinct lack of security cameras as well; one upside to being forced to operate in broad daylight. The cops, what few he saw, all looked extremely overworked and underequipped. Shotguns instead of ARs, ties instead of bulletproof vests, revolvers instead of Glocks. If there was a High Table around, it looked like their influence was severely down. Or all the low-level crime that he suspected was running rampant would long ago have been reduced to a few high-profile cases at a time.
He passed the Continental on his wanderings. There was a sign under the name proclaiming one Oswald Cobblepot as the proprietor. He wondered if Winston would take over once the bastard finally got sent down here.
Finally, he found the library. Once again, it was a just so ever slightly off version of the one he knew. More gargoyles, for one. Secondly, the computer lab was just so damned small. Barely ten desktops total, and one printer/fax-machine. At least they all seemed to run on Windows XP; in Hell he was sure the operating system would've been either Linux or Windows Vista.
He started with the newspaper records.
Jason Todd's death had been barely a blip on the Gotham newsfront. Expected, considering the graveyard he'd been laid to rest in. What had apparently taken the headline that day was the announcement that the 'supervillains' Joker and Harley Quinn had been reincarcerated in Arkham Asylum, courtesy of the 'heroes' Batman and Nightwing.
He recognized exactly two of those names.
He knew quite well who Batman was; hell, he'd been paid to kill quite a few knockoffs back in the day when they'd decided they wanted to play Boy Scout and got too big for their britches. The Joker he knew as well: Batman's nemesis.
Apparently, he'd ended up somewhere where comic books came to life.
Which left him with an interesting question: if Batman had been working with someone other than Robin to capture the Joker...then why?
He froze, and then slowly pulled out the watch this body had been buried with. He stared at the engraving on the cover.
Oh. That was why.
It hadn't taken long for Bruce Wayne to replace his deceased sidekick. And it wasn't all that hard to work out the new name wearing the guise of Robin. Timothy Drake; evidently a child genius. There had been other rotating players mentioned as well: Batgirl. Oracle. Nightwing. And a wide cast of accompanying threats: Deathstroke. Deadshot. Killer Croc. The League of Shadows.
Most of whom were now locked up in this Arkham place.
This world made no damn sense.
Where was the High Table? Where was the Mob? The Mafia? The underworld in general? Sure, there had been some stuff here and there, but nowhere near to the level he was used to dealing with. Certainly no international connections. The Bowery had been taken over by a Dr. Isley, aka 'Poison Ivy', years ago. Even Oswald Cobblepot, the owner of the Continental (aka the Iceberg Lounge) here, seemed to be nothing more than a dabbler. So who was responsible? Not the Batman; taking out people like the High Table required someone willing to get their hands bloody. Was this a one-man shadow government situation? He didn't think there was a war going on; there had already been one between two of the few major players not long ago, resulting in the deaths of both Marroni and Falcone.
So just who was in charge nowadays? And should he seek them out?
The answer was an immediate, emphatic no. He'd wanted this, hadn't he? To get out of the game for good? Well, here was the perfect chance. No wanted posters, a faked death, a younger body. He could do anything he wanted.
Well, anything within reason. He was supposed to be dead, after all. Which meant that, until he at least got enough money to afford a forger, he was gonna have to work off the books.
Gotham was a port town; maybe he could sign with a fishing boat. One that preferred to do a little smuggling on the side.
Or, if he wanted to start out right, a volunteer/charity organization would be a good place to start. Maybe even right here in the library. Food for thought. At the very least, it couldn't hurt to ask.
So he closed out his session on the desktop and went hunting for someone that looked like they were in charge.
What he found was Timothy Drake leaning over a desk walking easily with a lady in a wheelchair. A lady that could only be…
Barbara Gordon. Desk Manager.
Or so the sign said.
This day just kept getting better and better.
Tim Drake might not recognize the previous Robin. But Barbara Gordon definitely would. Her father was the Police Commissioner, and she'd apparently been targeted by the Joker personally. She would know. And there was no way he could work at a library without interacting with the woman sooner or later. He'd just have to find somewhere else.
The bulletin board on the way out of the library informed him that there was a soup kitchen looking for volunteers about three blocks down, and that they could offer pay. That was all he needed to hear; he immediately set off for the address.
Only to run headlong into the biggest amount of trouble possible.
Eight of them. Plus two in a getaway van, and a driver. And they were all converging on one specific person on the crosswalk. A teenage girl.
He acted without thinking. The first went down to a thrown butterfly knife through the spinal cord. He relieved the thug of his Beretta 92, retrieved his knife after a few extra stabs as a precaution, and immediately engaged the others.
He got two before the van skidded to a stop in the middle of the crosswalk, thankfully cutting off four of the remaining goons from their comrades while leaving him free to engage the drivers. He got one as they attempted to haul the girl into the van, and to his surprise, the girl fought off the second. The last goon on this side of the van went down to a 9mm bullet through the throat, and then he was forced to duck as the final four rounded on him.
Bullets skipped along the ground behind him as he ran for cover; thankfully, Gotham seemed to be that sort of a town that kept trees lined up and down the avenues. Out of fifteen bullets, he was down to seven. Less than ideal.
The hail of fire finally let up, and he jumped to his feet, gun once more aimed and ready. He got the two back tires of the now-escaping van with two shots apiece. One bullet left. He shoved the gun down the small of his back and picked up one of the dead goons' weapons: an MP5-K. So, they'd been trying to be subtle with something easily concealable, but willing to go full-auto if provoked. Good to know.
The blue panel van swerved (the driver obviously wasn't used to driving with flats), and then crashed into a light pole. No sooner had the van stopped when the remaining four goons spilled out of the side. He double-tapped each one, then put a third bullet into anyone still moving.
If all four had gotten out to deal with him, then the girl was probably unconscious inside the van. Which left him with exactly one target left: the driver.
He yanked the driver's door opening, immediately throat-punching the woman before she could even draw her gun. Next, he broke her nose, then slammed it down into the steering wheel. Good; she was paying attention now.
"WHO HIRED YOU?!" he yelled as loud as he could.
The woman just coughed, spewing blood everywhere.
"WHO?!" he slammed her into the wheel again.
"Black.." she gasped out. "Mask."
Black Mask. He didn't recognize the name. The Batman? Doubtful. He didn't seem like the type. Then again, it had been a kidnapping instead of a hit. The Bat's only rule was 'no killing'; maybe he'd taken that absence of rules to the logical extreme.
Whatever the case, he wouldn't be getting any more answers from the driver; she'd finally passed out from the pain.
What to do, what to do...shoot her? Kidnap her for interrogation? Let her go with a message for her boss? Not the latter; the last thing he needed was someone getting his description to this 'Black Mask'. And he just didn't have the time or setup for interrogation. The Russian Stealth way it was.
Two 9mm bullets hit the driver in the temple, and then it was back to finish off the goon the girl had managed to knock out by herself. Or, that was the plan. The girl seemed to have other ideas.
She was standing over the downed thug, set in an obvious fighter's stance. "You can't kill him."
He didn't have time for this. "Kid, get out of the way."
The girl just snorted. "Kid? That's rich coming from a fourteen year old."
"A fourteen year old that just killed ten people." he reminded her. "I have no problems with shooting you if you get in my way."
A scared look crossed the girl's face; good. "You wouldn't; not after you went through all that trouble to save me."
"I said I would shoot you." He aimed the submachine gun. "I never said I would kill you. Can't do much without kneecaps. Now get out of the way."
The girl froze. Not for long, but long enough. What the girl had failed to realize was that by threatening her kneecaps, it left him free to aim between her legs. Right at the downed thug's femoral artery.
BANG! BANG!
One shot was all he managed to put into the goon before the girl jumped at him. His second shot went into the threatened kneecap. The girl crashed to the asphalt a few feet short of him, hissing in pain.
"I told you to get out of the way." He carefully slung the MP5 behind his back, doing his best to make sure his jacket covered it. "Not my fault you didn't listen. Be grateful; all that bullet did was dislocate the cartilage, not shatter it. Shouldn't be long before you're walking around by yourself. While you're laid up, you might consider putting a word in with the police."
"Oh yeah?"the girl glared at him with fire in her eyes, "for what?"
"They've been relying too much on Batman. I think they've forgotten that bad things happen in the daytime too. Remind them of that. Maybe they'll wise up and subcontract a vigilante under their own thumb."
"Like who?" the girl spat, "You?"
He just looked at her. "Do I look like the vigilante type?"
The girl pushed herself up into a sitting position, grimacing the whole while. "You're certainly a wildcard, that's for sure."
A wildcard. He'd been called many things before, but never that. "That's a new one. I'll have to remember it."
Sirens began blaring in the distance; time to go. "See you round, kid. Stay out of trouble."
"How can I?" the girl gave a dry chuckle, "With wildcards like you around."
Wildcard again. You know, the name was kinda starting to grow on him.
He ducked down the alleyway, and went looking for a new friend. One who wouldn't necessarily mind protecting him from this Black Mask if said individual ever figured out who he was. Or where he was.
So much for working in a soup kitchen.
Barbara Gordon was not having a good day.
It had started with Tim bringing her coffee.
Tim never brought her coffee.
What had started out as seemingly a pleasant gesture rapidly deteriorated once Tim realized his 'bribe' wasn't going to get her to divulge Steph's location. Stephanie would come back when she was good and ready, and until then, Barbara would respect her privacy. Tim, however, wouldn't.
If it hadn't been the library, there would've been shouting.
She'd even seen a guest get halfway to the desk before realizing just what sort of conversation was going on there, and immediately pulling a one-eighty. She couldn't really blame him; but she would've appreciated the distraction.
In the end, what had ended the conversation was something neither she nor Tim had been expecting: her wheelchair's hidden laptop gave three long buzzes. She had immediately pulled it out, and booted up her connection to the Clocktower. When at last the thing connected (damn satellites), what greeted them was one of the worst possible things that either could imagine: a police report.
A police report that listed the victim as one "Brown, Stephanie".
Naturally, everything fell apart from there.
And three hours later, Barabra was sitting at her desk in the Clocktower trying to process it all.
Steph was back. Steph had been attacked. Steph had been saved. Steph's savior had given no name. Steph was calling him 'Wildcard'. Wildcard had killed ten people. Wildcard had shot Steph. Wildcard had disappeared.
The police were clueless. Her dad was scared. Tim was furious. Bruce...oh god, she hadn't heard from Bruce yet. What would he say? She'd promised that everything would be fine, that Steph deserved a break. And her promise had almost cost Steph her life.
She should've been watching; Tim had been right. Of course, she would never admit it to his face, considering how harsh he'd been over the past few hours. Well, right up until he stormed out of the hospital after he and Steph got in a shouting match. Again.
Right, enough of that. She had a job to do.
Find Wildcard.
Easier said than done.
All they had was Steph's description of the kid. And yes, Steph had been absolutely sure he was a kid. A fourteen year old who was already a seasoned killer. God help them.
Fourteen years old, pale, skinny, black hair, green eyes. If Barbara didn't know any better, she'd be sure Steph was describing Harry Potter. The boy's outfit had been nondescript: military green jacket, blue jeans, boots, red shirt. Easily findable (and ditchable) at any consignment store in Gotham.
No fingerprints on the scene; Wildcard had made sure not to leave any. DNA might have given them something, but it would've taken time. Time they didn't have; while Barbara and Tim had been with Steph, the getaway van had disappeared and all the bodies had been delivered to the crematorium. By the time the police found out, it was far too late.
And wasn't that a scary thought. Whoever had come after Steph was so deep in the police that they had made everything just simply go away. Which was why Steph was now safely ensconced one floor down in a wheelchair of her own, making coffee.
With a sigh, Barbara set up an automatic security camera search and headed downstairs. It looked like she was in for a long night. That caffeine would come in handy.
Roman Sionis silently raged as once more the traffic camera footage played.
He'd been waiting for so long for this moment. So long to begin picking off the Bat-family one by one. Only to have his dream literally crash and burn in front of him.
The only thing keeping the Black Mask from killing the interferer at this very moment was that he had no idea just who the kid was. The traffic cams in Gotham were piss poor black and white, and the kid seemed to know how to avoid the better quality ones in town. Sure, he had the official description the Bat-bitch had given the police, but that was it. And a description would only get you so far in a town like Gotham.
He'd already put the word out to his underlings; whoever found this "Wildcard", as they were already calling him, would get five million dollars hard cash. Naturally, everyone had jumped all over the contract, but luckily, the amount offered had attracted the attention of the best the underworld had to offer.
No matter how good this kid was, he couldn't possibly be better than Slade Wilson.
Right?