Arkham: Inquisition

by Andrew the Second

Trista Martin had studied serial killers for a psych mag for years, but her new assignment might be even more disturbing. She has been sent to Gotham, home of the infamous Arkham Asylum, a hospital for the criminally insane which houses some of the most dangerous and eccentric criminals in the world. An examination and reinterpretation of some of the greatest villains of all time

15. Chapter 15: Maxim Zeus

Chapter 9 – Maxim Zeus

1

The night air was cool and full of smoke. Joker's Night was in full swing in the streets and everywhere black smoke rose like pillars, stained terra cotta by the street lights and fires below. Sirens cried out from every direction and the flashing blue and red twinkled like Christmas lights between the buildings. Against the low hanging smog and smoke, a spot light illuminated the silhouette of a bat. Trista leaned against the window sill in the hotel room, looking out and listening to the news describe the horrors in the streets.

"In what has become a yearly tradition, Joker's Night, named for the infamous terrorist and criminal mastermind, once again turns the streets of our fair city into a warzone." Trista turned the electrode she had taken off the IND over in her hand, studying the design.

"Gotham PD has vowed to put an end to the yearly crime spree and had been making progress until just two years ago, when the tradition seemed to reassert itself. Last year, over 27 people lost their lives and an estimated 178 people were hospitalized. More than 2,8 million dollars in damages to private and state property occurred, breaking the record set just the year before." Somewhere, the popping of gunfire punctuated the statement.

"We are doing everything in our power to protect our city." Trista turned at the sound of Gordon's voice. He was behind a podium, looking to be about 102, his eyes sunken and the lines of his face deeper, even under the spotlights.

"We will be adopting the same zero tolerance policy as last year. If you participate in this event, you will go to jail. The maximum penalty will be applied to any and all individuals arrested during this night for any crimes they commit." They cut to scenes of burning businesses and rioters wearing clown make-up. An image of a skyscraper downtown appeared that had a huge smiley face painted across its front with burning windows where its eyes should have been.

"That was Commissioner Gordon just this morning and the Gotham PD has been in the streets in force. The Batman has also been sighted in the downtown area, helping to apprehend and contain the riot. We here at WKNG News 1 urge our viewers to stay inside and keep your doors and windows locked tonight. Stay safe, and stay vigilant." An ad for life insurance appears and Trista heads over to her laptop.

About an hour later she was reading through a bio on Maxamillian Zenon when she heard a loud pop from outside and the power went out. The sudden darkness and silence jolted her and she had to take a moment to get her bearings. In the city, silence is more disorienting than any loud noise. Trista went to the window and looked out. The street lights were out too, maybe the whole block. She wondered if the power went out at Arkham, but it was no where near this block. There was laughter and shouting down at the street and she shut the window. Trista went back to the door to the room and looked into the hall. The emergency lights had come on and lit the hall in dull yellow spotlights. A few of the other guests were looking out into the hall too, some were chatting about it further down. Trista went back to the window in her room and just listened to the sounds of the city. A flash caught her eye, a small spark from down the street. It was someone flicking a lighter. She went to her bags and searched until she found her binoculars. She looked and saw the flash again and then the flame. The face illuminated as the cigarette was lit and she saw a grinning clown with black eyes and a red mouth. For a moment her heart tightened. It couldn't be him, its just someone dressed up as him. He is locked away, where no one can even talk with him. She watched as the red ember at the end of the cigarette glowed brighter and a puff of smoke billowed out of the silhouette. Then he turned and the glowing dot of the cigarette swung around and shot out of his hand into a nearby building. For a moment nothing happened. Then the building lit up like the power had suddenly returned and the windows exploded out with blast of orange flame. The man had turned away and was walking down the street at a casual pace. Trista went to her door and locked the deadbolt. She sat on her bed listening to the recording of Tommy Wades telling the story of Clayface Lee until the power came back on a few hours later.

The next morning, Trista went down to the lobby to ask if they knew what caused the outage. The clerk shook his head.

"Beats me. One of the bellhops said it was someone who drove their car into a transformer. Maybe some joyriding joker. Serves em right." Trista got herself some coffee and went back up to watch the news to find out if anything else happened that night. 47 fires had been set that night across the city, a new record. Over 68 people were arrested and nearly 62 people were admitted to hospitals for serious injuries. So far the death count was at 18. "Jesus." Trista muttered to herself. That had happened right outside. She wondered if Tommy Wades made it to safety.

Once she'd had enough caffeine to start the day she set about writing the article on Clayface Lee. By the end of the day she had sent everything to her editor and passed out. She was still thinking about Zenon and the man tied to the fence the next morning. The empty look of his eyes. She had seen the eyes of a corpse before, but she had never seen them move. She would be going to Arkham later, but for now she only had the internet to look into. The Zenon brand is the company formally owned by silicon valley pioneer Maximillian Zenon. Max was responsible for many of the innovations and technologies that have become the corner stone of modern life in not only America but all over the world. He was considered the Nikola Tesla of our generation, pushing humanity into the next technological era. Among his many innovations are the lithium battery, the first microchip, the technology responsible for MRIs and CAT scans, the development of wireless connection and power, among others. At the age of 64, he remains one of the most brilliant minds in the world. How and why he descended into madness is known only in the form of rumor and speculation. There was talk of syphilis, an experiment gone wrong, a act of sabotage by a rival, or even early onset Alzheimer's. The only thing we know for sure is that some time in the last twenty years, Maximillian Zenon became reclusive, began spouting radical ideals about the return of Zeus and his connection with him, and began conducting dangerous experiments with electricity. Forming what can only be described as a cult around himself, he turned away from the world of technology and became increasingly isolated and strange. After he was retired from his company by the board of directors, he continued to create devices and technologies he kept to himself and his followers. What these might be also remains a mystery, as they were seized by the government after the raid on his headquarters in Gotham. Even so, many of the devices were leaked to the public and many companies began reverse engineering them for themselves. The Zenon company has failed to stem this intellectual property theft, due to the inventions in question being unpatented and unregistered. One such device was a vest which can absorb the heat put out by the body and convert it into electricity to charge devices and power various things, such as lights or speakers. Other technologies, such as the massively controversial brain electron stimulators. The basic concept was using electrical currents to stimulate certain areas of the brain. The device was a simple pair of electrodes which can be inserted into the ear or adhered to the scalp and plugged into any mobile phone, tablet or computer through the head phone jack. Using a special program created by Zenon, or more specifically the Zeus Cult, signals are sent in varying strengths and patterns to stimulate areas of the brain. This has been shown to have painkilling effect, aid in memory and creativity, and alleviate mental disorders such as depression, schizophrenia, dementia, and bipolar disorder. While this sounds amazing on the surface, the reality is much more complicated. These devices and programs have not been tested and approved by the health department and can have serious side effects and consequences. Already there are thousands of cases of people becoming terminally addicted to the painkilling use of the electrodes, resulting in irreversible neural damage and problems. People have been experiencing unexplained pain and anxiety after prolonged use, and there are a few cases of the devices malfunctioning and lobotomizing the user by delivering an extremely high voltage of electricity. When the FBI raided the infamous Olympus tower in Gotham, they found hundreds of cultists with brain damage and defects.

The cult itself was highly secretive, refusing to give information to outsiders. Even when granted entry into the cult, none of the ideals or rituals were taught to anyone unless they had paid an exorbitant amount of money. Rumors and accusations of abuse, kidnapping, and harassment of members was common, though not often reported. The things inflicted on members trying to leave the cult were far worse. One reporter who attempted to infiltrate the cult was found lobotomized and homeless years later in a different city. Maxamillian had changed his name and appearance. Now referring to himself as Maxim Zeus, he shaved his head ritualistically and had grown out a long beard. His body was covered in what looked like a complex roots or lightning bolts in a deep red and there were what looked like small holes in rows along his scalp and on various places on his body. Close examination revealed them to be metal tubes, like a microphone jack, and he has been seen with wires connected to them. The purpose of these holes can only be speculated on. The man remains a modern mystery.

All the files and records about Zenon had been confiscated by the Zenon Company or locked away by the SCP Corporation. The official stance of the Zenon company was that Maximillian Zenon had stepped down from his position as CEO due to a nervous breakdown. Everything about Zenon's illegal activities and cult were dismissed as a smear campaign by their chief rival, the Macrosoft company. It didn't help that Macrosoft's founder, Gill Bates, was a notorious shyster and dirty business dealer who stole every idea his company ever claimed from Max thanks to a twisted contract Max had signed when he was just starting out at Gill's company. It was only fuel for the constant nerd wars between loyalists of the two companies. The only way she was going to get the info she needed was to gain access to the SCP files, and her meeting with Dr. Adams hadn't gone well. While Adams hadn't said outright she wouldn't put her in contact with SCP corp, she only made vague promises to send them a request. That had been 3 days ago and she was running out of patience.

She was about to fall asleep when the phone in her room rang with a metallic trill. She glanced at the clock which still flashed 12:00 from the power outage on Joker's Night, she had been forgetting to reset it. It had to be around 2 am though. She picked it up and immediately a mumbled voice cursed and shouted in her ear.

"Damn you woman! Don't you ever pick up your phone?" It was her boss, Daniel R. Duke, famous journalist and mad bastard. Many of the people in her field would give a kidney to work for the man who wrote Horror and Hatred in St. Louis and called the former president a dog kicking swine on national television. He was a ruthless drug addict with a twisted sense of honor and a weak sense of self-preservation. To the crooked politicians and lawmakers, he was the mad bull elephant in the room. Trista had met him through her ex-husband and after he read some of her college work, he hired her on the spot. Since then she had been in and out of hotels all around the country doing research for his projects and her own. He had only recently taken an interest in Arkham and the super criminals. Despite their infamy, there was very little information about them to be found, nothing in depth anyways. Even though they can't seem to keep them imprisoned, they seem to be able to keep their stories locked up. Dan knew they'd never let her into Arkham unless Trista looked like a boring, psychology nerd doing a piece for a psychological periodical meant for eggheads and students, so he sent her out to interview serial killers and murderers so she could throw together a few decent articles and get her ready to talk with the super criminals. Cognition magazine was merely an elaborate front in order to get inside Arkham and get to the real story on the super criminals. Putting bogus copies in the newsstands and waiting rooms of psychiatrists had been a chore, but it worked. Her assignment was simply to gather information on the inmates of Arkham, get to the truth about these anomalies. What he planned to do with these articles, Trista had no idea. He was in contact with many magazines and papers from his glory days so he might be getting bids from them. He might just compile them into a book, a nice coffee table edition. None of that was Trista's concern, in the end. The job was the job.

"Do you have any idea what time it is? Where are you calling from?" Trista's voice was husky from sleep and she was in no mood for her employer's antics. In addition to being one of the best writers of a generation, Dan Duke was also notoriously eccentric and bizarre. Probably due to the massive amount of drugs and alcohol he had been consuming regularly since the 60's. He was a noted conspiracy theorist and whistle blower, the enemy of every political fat cat and crooker dealer, including the US government. Trista respected the man immensely and jumped at the chance to work with him, but eccentricity is more fun to watch, than to deal with and his wild moods and tangents got old fast with her.

"Never mind that. You're a professional journalist god dammit! There's only one time for our kind, time for action! Now scrub the sleep out of your ears and tell me why the hell you're dragging your feet on getting access at Arkham?" Trista pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to pull her mind back from the calm seas of sleep.

"I'm trying. The SCP corporation won't return my calls and Brass-balls Adams won't put me in touch with them."

"Damn her oily hide!" He shouted, making her hold the phone away from her ear. "That hard-bitten steer thinks she can stand in the way of freedom of the press? I won't stand for this! This means war! I'm a doctor of journalism! I will march right into that office and-" Trista cut him off.

"You'll do no such thing! You stay out of Gotham! This is my job!" He started muttering something about a plane ticket and Trista stood up.

"Do not get on that plane! I can handle this, dammit!" He had hung up before any of it reached his end of the line. Trista slammed the phone down and took a deep breath. If she wanted to keep him from barging in and throwing spanners into her works, she would have to crack Adams herself and first thing in the morning. It was going to be very close.

At first light, Trista pushed through the doors of Arkham. The lobby was as quiet and still as a morgue, the only sound was the gentle muzak coming from the speakers. She swiped her badge and walked into the white tile halls, going over her strategy in her head. It was a terrible strain, but her mind often proved itself more adept and cunning during times of great stress. She tried to harness that energy as she moved toward the office of Dr. Ruth Adams. There was a crowd of people blocking the path to Adams' office. Her first thought was horror, some monster had escaped and cornered her in the office that night. As she got closer she saw Hilleman and he looked back at her, his eyes wide with horror.

"Trista! Jesus, you won't believe this."

"Believe what?" She said numbly, trying to see past the onlookers. The door to Adams' office was closed. No EMTs with stretchers. No police tape. Then she heard it. A booming voice from behind the closed door and the high shriek of a woman giving someone a deadly tongue lashing. She knew it before she heard anything intelligible, before Hilleman said something about some crazy man who came barging into Adams' office and spewing obscenities and demands. Impossible. There was no way he had gotten here so fast. This was impossible. Trista was shoving people aside and marching to the door in a blind fury. She heard Hilleman say something about waiting for the police as she put her hand on the knob.

"You scurvy, dried-up, harpy! You put that goddamn book down and start making phone calls or I will bring the wrath of the free press down on you like a storm!" There was no doubt now. Trista opened the door.

The scene before her was too absurd to register for anyone who hadn't known Daniel Duke personally. He crouched like a besieged trencherman behind the back of an armchair, wearing an absurd trucker hat with a cartoon dog on the front. His eyes were wide and crazed behind huge orange tinted aviator glasses. He wore Bermuda shorts with horrible green socks in white loafers and his shirt was a sickening salmon colored polo with brown stains down the front. Dr. Adams was poised with a rather thick edition of some ancient tome by Sigmund Freud in one hand, like a quarterback about to throw the game winning pass. They both stared at Trista as if she had interrupted something intimate.

"You." Adams said in a hateful growl.

"You sent this lunatic after me." Her face was approaching a plum color and the birth mark or old scar on her forehead looked like blotters ink.

"At last!" Daniel roared. "Reinforcements! We'll hit her from two sides! A classic pincer maneuver." Trista felt the adrenalin in her brain like red fire.

"Security has no doubt been notified. You will BOTH be removed from here and barred indefinitely." Duke poked his head over the chair back.

"You do and it will be the last mistake you ever make!" Trista felt distant, like watching a television show or a sporting event.

"Now you listen to me, you heartless stygian succubus! I came here with a reasonable request and complaint. I am a doctor of journalism! I am here representing the free press and constitution of the United States of America. If you think you can sandbag a free agent of truth, justice, and the American way, I will become a pox on your house. I am Ahab! This place will become my personal white whale! I will harpoon this establishment with lawsuits and bad press until it floats belly up to be gutted for scrimshaw and ambergris! I will use every ounce of energy and political connections to have this place irrevocably clogged until the next solar eclipse! You have a simple choice here. Give in to our reasonable demands, or be crushed under the weight of your own hubris!" Adams snarled and pulled the book back for the winning play.

"How dare you come in here and demand anything! I will not be bullied and threatened by an unhinged bastard and his bitch!"

"That's enough!" Trista barked, bringing silence to the room like a falling curtain.

"This is ridiculous! You both need to calm the fuck down!" They both stared at Trista as if she had suddenly appeared in the room in a puff of smoke and a sequined leotard.

"You!" Trista pointed a finger at Duke who recoiled from her gaze like beaten dog.

"Get the fuck out of here before you end up in the hospital or jail!" He looked at her surprised for a moment before turning to look at Adams, who looked like a cow on the tracks of an oncoming train. He winked and backed out of the office, anticipating a final attack. They were alone. For a moment they just stared at each other.

"There are two things you need to know about that man. One, I am NOT his bitch, he is my boss. I did not send him here, I didn't even want him in the same city. He came here because I haven't been able to continue my work because of you. And two, he is every bit as crazy as he is honest. He WILL choke this place with litigation and lawyers if I can't convince him not to, and I can't convince him not to unless I get a call from the SCP corporation about getting me more access. He was once a journalist himself and was called Daniel the Duke of Bastards by being uncompromising and reckless. He has more than enough infamy and spite to make good on all his threats." Adams stared at her, her face stony and blank. Trista softened a bit.

"Please." Adams lowered the book and seemed to recompose herself.

Outside the office, Dan was laughing and talking with the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. When he saw Trista, he threw out his arms and shouted.

"There she is! Did you get it? Did you crack the old stone?" Trista reeled back and decked him in the ear. He jumped back with a surprised bark and gripped his ear.

"Christ woman! Why the ear?!" Trista just scowled.

"That is for butting into my project, and for that god awful outfit! What, did you dress with your eyes closed?! Fuck!" He looked at her, still wincing and holding his ear. He looked down at his clothes and wiped at the brown stain fruitlessly.

"But the contact? Did you get it?" Trista rolled her eyes and just looked at him. He smiled and pumped his fist in the air.

"Well done! You always were the best at being Good Cop." Trista rolled her eyes and shook her hand, which was throbbing slightly. Hilleman was flushed and could only stare at her in wonder.

"That was the sexiest thing I've ever witnessed." Her scowl was broken by a small smile for a moment.

"Oh yes, almost forgot." Dan was moving toward the office again and everyone recoiled as if he had pulled the pin on a grenade.

"Don't you dare!" Trista shouted but he had already disappeared inside. They waited. Trista almost expected to hear the ticking of a time bomb. The window of the office exploded as a book sailed through and landed hard on the tile. Dan was hurrying out of the office like a soldier under enemy fire, a huge grin on his face. As they hurried out Trista asked what he said to her.

"Not much." He shrugged. "Just asked her out to dinner." Trista stopped and Daniel Duke walked out of the asylum, humming a tune.

2

Dan had offered to take her out to lunch and Trista decided she may as well accept it. They went to a crab shack down by the waterfront that had a sign out front promising that all seafood had been imported and not caught fresh anywhere near Gotham. Probably a requirement by the health code. Dan ordered a whole bottle of Wild Turkey for the table and Trista watched as he took a small box out the size of a cigarette box. He turned it over and flipped a small door on the corner, like the opening of a tic tac container. On the lid was a neat pile of white powder which he proceeded to sniff. Trista looked around but no one had noticed.

"I thought you quit that stuff." Dan grinned and lit a cigarette.

"It's a holiday. Eisenhower's birthday." She shook her head.

"You want a beer?" Trista rolled her eyes and declined.

"How bout a hit of acid?" She recoiled.

"Jesus, Dan. This is a public place. This isn't the 70's. You can't broadcast that kind of stuff." Dan waved her off.

"Like hell I can't. This is America, and more importantly Gotham. Hell, everything's legal in Gotham. You know that. Besides, I was only joking. I'd never give you LSD again, not after last time." Trista sat up, alarmed.

"What last time? I've never taken that stuff!" Dan shook his head with a smile.

"Don't be so obtuse. You don't remember taking it, but you did. After that scum sucker Martin left you for good. I knew that bastard was a no good pile of steaming albino warts. You're better off! Honestly. Who marries a man named Martin Martin?" Trista felt her face redden and she grit her teeth.

"He was the one who introduced us, if that pharmacy dumpster you call a brain can remember. Actually, that might prove you right." She was already on edge, but now she was dangling.

"Couldn't believe Marty had scored a winner like you. Some bastards have all the luck. Anyways, you were spiraling into depression. A useless wreck. More importantly you weren't getting any work done. I thought it may jump start that brain of yours, get it back in gear." Trista growled through her teeth.

"I can't thank you enough, Duke." He laughed.

"That stuff got right on top of you. You turned into a goddamned werewolf! You went wild in the streets and brought a saxophone player from the corner up to your room. You then proceeded to fuck his brains out, consume his entire day's worth of tips, and finally he ran out of the building screaming after you tried to sodomize him with a rubber fist you had inexplicably acquired that night." Trista had no words. Her language center had been temporarily shut down as her brain was flooded with shock and rage. Dan seemed to realize the coming storm and said,

"You let go, is what happened. After years in a loveless marriage and a week in depression, you finally let yourself out. And after that, you were writing again." Trista felt her senses return. He was right, she had been trapped in her marriage to Martin, but when he left her it completely blindsided her. It was like wishing for something every day out of spite and selfishness and then having it come true. You can't feel good about it because you feel bad about it. She had been depressed and useless. She couldn't remember how she came out of it, just that she woke up one day and felt like herself again. She was finding it hard to stay mad at him.

They brought the food and Trista asked, "Why in god's name did you ask Dr. Adams out? You know bestiality is illegal in this state, right?" Dan grinned.

"I have a weakness for crazy women like that. Brains and brawn. You're mother was like that." Trista groaned. She hated talking about her mother.

"Don't you dare go into your theories about me being your illegitimate child! I know you used to romp with her in the 70's, but she would have told me if I was fathered by a lunatic. Maybe she thought it might undermine her control over me if I knew my real father was a famous asshole." Dan seemed hurt by this. He gave her a sad smile.

"You really hate her, don't you?" Trista rolled her eyes.

"We're not having this discussion." Dan took a drink and looked at her.

"You know, women like her are more vulnerable than you think. They put up a tough front and they antagonize everyone, but its because they prefer being hated to being pitied. Even with someone they love, especially with someone they love. Someone who matters." Trista was taken aback by this.

"Which part of 'we are not having this discussion' do you not understand?" He shrugged.

"I guess everything before 'having'."

Trista tried to keep her mind on her work.

"Don't think you can distract me from asking what the hell you think you are doing here."

"Getting the job done." He muttered.

"Getting MY job done. You almost blew the whole thing with that brawl you had with Adams." He slammed his fist on the table.

"That rotten hellcat would have strung you along for weeks! We needed access! Time is of the essence in journalism."

"Why?" Trista asked, suspicion dawning on her. "What's really going on here? This isn't just a series of articles on super criminals is it?" He looked around as if he suspected they were being watched.

"For you? Yes. For me? That is only the roof of the thing." He spoke in a low mutter.

"The freaks at Arkham are the key to the whole thing, the key to the SCP Corporation." Trista leaned forward on her elbows.

"Is this another of your conspiracy theories?" He looked around again before crushing his cigarette out.

"I know I dabble in conspiracy theory as a hobby, but this isn't some crack pot fantasy about aliens or shadow governments. This one is rock solid. This is the big one." Trista crossed her arms with a frown.

"So when were you going to let me in on this secret mission?" He refilled his drink and took a swig.

"I was going to bring you in when you got close enough to SCP. This is an ominous mission, with overtones of extreme personal danger here. Why the hell do you think I've been here for two weeks?" He didn't seem to realize he said it but Trista almost stood up.

"Two weeks? What the-?" He put his hands up.

"Now, now! I had to come. After that swine Nigma hacked our system, I had to be sure he didn't find anything about it. He could have blown the whole thing, or blackmailed us. I had to make sure the bastard got put on ice and all credibility he had was hamstringed." Trista slumped back, unable to cope with what she was hearing.

"So you've been watching me for two weeks?"

"Hell no!" He snarled. "I've been working! Your assignment is just a moon. My work is the fucking planet! I won't be interfering in your work anymore. Now that that banshee Adams has let us into the SCP, my work can continue. As will yours." Trista rubbed her forehead, exhausted by stress.

"So what the hell have I been writing these things for? Some elaborate cover?" Dan sighed and took another drink.

"Of course not. You are doing this for YOU. Because you are a writer, a damn good one, and because you are a professional. When this is done you'll have two or three books out of it and a bright future." Trista looked at him sideways.

"What about your 'fucking planet' of a project? You don't think it might eclipse my little moon?" He waved her off.

"You won't be a part of it and when it hits, if everything comes up aces, I won't either. This has to be my last report. Once this is out, I'm either a stranger in a strange land, or a dead man." Trista was surprised at this.

"This is serious, isn't it?" He looked around again and nodded slightly. The bill came and Trista looked expectantly at him. He tossed the last of his drink back and stood.

"I'll have my assistant take care of it." Trista looked around.

"Assistant?"

"You." He said, pointing a finger. "You take care of it."

"You said you would buy lunch!" She shouted indignantly.

"I am buying this lunch! Where do you think your money comes from? Put it on the expense account and call me a fucking cab! I need acid." Trista made a rude gesture as he turned away and went to pay the bill.

They took a cab and Dan directed the driver to his place. They pulled up in front of a decrepit brownstone on the east end.

"This place has YOU written all over it." Trista quipped.

"Called up an old friend, let me rent a room at his place. SOME of us can't afford fancy hotels every damn night." They went up a flight of graffiti covered stairs and came to a door with the word NOONE carved into it with a pocket knife. Dan gave the door a quick rabbit punch and shouted.

"Let me in you old faggot! This is the police! If I hear a toilet flush we'll bust down this door and send you in after whatever dope you ditched!" A rusty familiar voice grumbled from the behind the door.

"I got nothin worth takin but my life, and I warn you I have a strict no refunds policy." There was a fumbling of locks and the door opened. Tommy Wades stood there wearing a ratty bathrobe decorated in coffee mugs and cigarette burns, cigarettes rolled into his hair like curlers. They both laugh and hug.

"Hello again, fair lady." He said to her with a nod and a wink.

"Glad to see you made it home okay." Trista said and he welcomed them inside.

The inside looked like a cross between a thrift store and a condemned brothel. A puke green chaise lounge sat at the far end of the living room, the wall paper was peeling and missing in places, strange collections of junk covered every shelf. The ceiling was painted with wild colors and shapes in a wheel pattern. Tom motioned to it.

"Pops Picasso painted that when he was staying here and couldn't afford the rent." Trista gawked.

"It must be worth a fortune!" Tommy chuckled.

"Not many people looking to hang a ceiling in their gallery. I'd rather he'd paid the rent." Dan went into his room and began throwing things, grumbling to himself. Tom offered Trista coffee and she accepted. He handed her a pink mug that said 'I hate it here' in glitter on the side.

"Seeing as you're here, Danny must have brought you into his little project." Trista shrugged.

"He hasn't told me much yet. How do you know Daniel?" Tommy grinned.

"Me and the Duke go way back. He was the one who put me onto writing. He offered to rent a room in my parent's old place and I said he could, so long as he kept his crimes to himself and didn't bring the fuzz down on us. He was the one who sent me out to find you when you hit a dead end on Clayface Lee. Told me to keep an eye out for a pretty young writer with a tape recorder and a devil may care attitude. Bet you thought it was coincidence, eh?" Daniel came back out with a small shaving kit and sat on the chaise lounge.

"There are no such thing as coincidences in journalism! Okay, kiddies. Story time." He opened the kit, revealing a recording device with a microphone that looked like a .357 with a speaker jammed in its barrel, he turned on a radio, voices boomed out, some kind of talk show, and he motioned for us to lean in close.

"Can't be too careful. The walls in Gotham have ears." Tommy chortled.

"In some places they have more than that." He winked at Trista who covered her smile with the coffee mug.

"I hate this goddamned city! Every time I come to Gotham, I leave with scars. This place needs to be blasted to dust and salted. But there is one thing I hate more than Gotham." Trista rolled her eyes.

"Oh please! Not the Batman again."

"The goddamn Batman!" He snarled at her.

"So which theory are you going with this time? That he's actually Bruce Wayne, who is only pretending to be paralyzed from the waist down? Or maybe its that you think he is a secret government agent? A CIA super soldier project? Stop me if I guess it." Dan lit a cigarette and glared at her.

"Your mockery will only make it harder to jam that foot in your mouth after it all comes out." Trista threw her hands up.

"What is your problem with him? He fights crime, protects the people from lunatics like Croc and the Joker. This city loves him." Dan just shook his head.

"You poor child. You haven't been around as long as I have. I know a fascist enforcer when I see one. All he does is maintain the status quo, keep the people under control. If he didn't have freaks like the ones in Arkham to busy himself with, he'd be harassing debtors and poor people just like any other cop, except HE isn't accountable for his actions. These people allow him to pulverize criminals at will because he is only a threat to 'bad people'. What would they do if he started killing criminals instead of beating them into submission? What would they do if he started targeting potential criminals, or people who's only crimes are questioning the powers that be? Could we stop him? Could we vote him out of office or protest at his head quarters? Could we press charges and have him imprisoned? He is a one man swat team who could cripple any attempts and put his power in check and all these people just ASSUME he is altruistic? Get a grip, man!" Trista shook her head and looked at Tommy, who just gave her a helpless shrug.

Trista leaned her chin on her hand and gave him a bored expression.

"So what is it you have on him?" Daniel looked at her a moment.

"There is a connection between him, the SCP corporation, Wayne Corp, and the CIA. I was contacted by an anonymous source who told me as much. According to him or her, the Batman is a covert CIA agent designed to control the criminal population and inspire the civilians to obey the law. Think of it! A law enforcement agent posing as a vigilante, taking down mob bosses and terrorists using secret technology and black ops tactics, adopting a terrifying image and building a mythos around himself, and patrolling the city in the shadows, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting criminals like a panther. A terrorist who targets terrorists. You think the US government would allow one of its own citizens to uphold the law if he wasn't under their thumb? Think about it. Police have lost all credibility after the protests of the 60's and 70's, the race riots, beating and shooting the poor, they no longer represent justice in America, they only represent the power of the government. They can't have a cop dress up in armor and carry advanced weaponry, the people wouldn't have it. Seeing armored cops in the streets brings up bad memories of storm troopers and fascist goon squads. They can't have a CIA agent working openly within the country, its against the regulations WE voted into place to keep them in check. And besides, anyone with a name and an address can be targeted or corrupted. It had to be someone anonymous, a civilian, someone who couldn't be bought, bullied, or arrested. Someone the government could disown the minute things went south." Trista had heard all this before.

"So who is the Batman?" Dan flicked his cigarette out of a broken window.

"Don't know for sure. Could be several people now. The only one I've been able to nail down is Bruce Wayne, but the man was crippled by mafia hit men in the 60's. I checked him out, it was a bullet to the spine. Irreversible. I figure they found someone else to take up the mantle, maybe several, incase one of them catches a bullet again. Invisible people. No records or identification. Wayne is still involved, but to what capacity, I aim to find out." Tommy crossed his legs primly and said,

"Wonder why they had Wayne at all if he was so obvious? Rich guy, parents murdered by mugger at a young age, has more money than the vatican and a grudge against crooks. Wouldn't take an ace detective to put that together." Daniel shook his head. "That's what made him a perfect prototype. Someone with the resources and motive to become the Batman. They probably came to him as a young man and made him an offer, get back at the people who offed your folks, we'll train you, arm you, and feed you intel so you can go out and put the boots to em for Uncle Sam. Become a hero to the people of Gotham. I'll bet he jumped at the chance. Problem was he was too perfect. The mob figured him out within a few years and finally one of their goons got a lucky shot. It must have ripped him up inside, all that training and fighting gone in an instant, like pulling a fuse. I bet they kept him on the team out of pity for the poor bastard."

Trista leaned over and clicked off the radio. "Alright I think we've covered that, I have to get back to my article." Tom pulled a cigarette out of one of the curls in his hair and lit it. "Who's the lucky man?" Trista turned to him, ignoring Daniel. "Maxim Zeus." Tommy's eyebrows went up. "Maxie Zeus! Our very own Deus Ex Hominum." Dan grumbled under his breath. "Slimy cultist bastard with a god complex. Like we don't have enough of those here. Be careful what you say around his people. They are known to be unstable and fiercely loyal." Trista grinned without much humor. "I'm sure Batman will protect me." He grunted. "Don't bet on it." Trista rolled her eyes and looked at her watch before standing up. "Well, I'll leave you to your 'ominous' mission then. I'm sure you'll both be very busy getting sized for tin foil hats and painting the windows black. I have to get back to work on real stories. Tommy, good to see you again." Tommy tipped his head to her with a smile. "Don't think I won't hold you to your deadlines because of this! I want my article!" Trista turned around and flipped him a middle finger before closing the door behind her.

When Trista got back to her hotel, her phone was ringing. Thinking it might be Daniel, she huffed and stomped over to it. "Trista Martin?" A voice came over the line, a gruff energetic voice, like a used car salesman. "Speaking." "This is Dr. Deegan with the SCP Corporation, I understand you are seeking access to restricted files. Will you be available to meet with me to discuss the matter?" Trista was taken by surprise. She wasn't expecting a response this quick. Something about him calling just as she was walking in made her uneasy. It was probably all that conspiracy garbage from Dan. "Yes, of course." She said, hoping she didn't sound too excited. "Fantastic. Come to Arkham later today, I've been anxious to met you." The unease swelled inside her but she ignored it. This might open new doors for her. There was no time for paranoia.

Dr. John Deegan met Trista in the waiting room of Arkham. He was wearing a white lab coat with a simple brown vest and tie. His hair was white and slicked back close to the scalp, the way old time press boys slicked it back with pomade. He wore thick glasses which were tinted black and hid his eyes. He smiled a wide toothy smile as Trista approached and his teeth were as perfect as a toothpaste ad.

"Trista Martin! At last we meet. I have been hearing good things about you my dear." He held out his hand and Trista returned the gesture. He grabbed her hand in both of his and shook it vigorously, an awkward surprise.

"Its nice to meet you as well, Dr. Deegan. I hope you haven't been hearing too much about me." He barked a laugh which made a few people I the room jump.

"You've become something of a curiosity here at Arkham. When I heard you were seeking access to the SCP files and patients, I knew we had to meet. Dr. Adams wanted to keep you for herself but I wouldn't hear of it." They began walking as he talked and Trista hardly noticed. He had a way of holding your attention like a hypnotist and it made Trista uneasy.

"I've read your articles. Fascinating! Such insight, and the way you have been able to communicate with these notoriously uncooperative type patients is nothing short of extraordinary. I think you and I share many of the same gifts. A dedication to pure science and a fixation on the criminal mind. I can't tell you how interested I am in watching you work." They walked past Dr. Adam's office and she shot Trista a disapproving look as they did. They came to the door leading to the new ward and Dr. Deegan placed his palm on a pad, causing a sharp beep and the sound of a lock turning. The logo for the SCP corporation was on everything. The halls here were much more modern, it was like they had stepped through a portal into a science fiction world. The doors they passed were equipped with television screens showing the interior of the rooms. Many of them were empty but she could see figures within a few and wondered who they might be. They came to an office and Strange held the door for her as she walked in. The office was nearly empty, except for a metal desk and chair. A laptop sat folded to one side and an intercom speaker and phone sat on the other. Deegan went over and reached into small hole in the wall. He pulled and the wall seemed to be folding out into a chair, which he offered to Trista.

"Do forgive my Spartan dwelling here. Don't get many people in here unfortunately. Most of my time is spent in the labs and interview rooms. Now then." He sat behind the desk and steepled his fingers, a wide smile still on his face.

"You wish to have access to our patients, yes? I trust you already know security, particularly around these eccentric criminals, has been taken on by the SCP Corporation, a private security and research company, which I represent. We specialize in studying, containing, and processing the criminally insane. S-C-P. After the riot here and the grizzly consequences, it became clear that the security at Arkham was not prepared for individuals of this nature. This is why we have been called in. We provide excellent care to our patients as well as thorough study and therapy when possible. We have given invaluable information to law enforcement agencies, including the CIA and FBI, on the nature and mentality of this unique criminal phenomenon " He slid a pamphlet across the desk to her.

"You'll find everything you need to know about the SCP Corporation in here. Now that the formalities are out of the way, we would like to offer you a deal, in exchange for access." Trista tilted back as though smelling something rotten.

"So this is their game, eh? Have all the access you want as long as we can control what it is you publish about us." He chuckled heartily and shook his head.

"My dear, you are getting ahead of me. We have no intention of manipulating your journalistic integrity. Now as I was saying before I was so charmingly interrupted but my learned colleague." There was a small flash of contempt and belittlement in his voice, not unlike what she would expect from Dr. Adams, yet this was deeper. Almost menacing.

"We will allow access within reason to patients and files, in exchange we merely wish to keep any and all findings and research you collect for our files. You will be given full credit of course and though we do not intend to publish them, they will be viewed by law enforcement agencies and psychologists for years to come. This may bring you some very good attention, yes?" Trista relaxed a bit, though still uneasy.

"That sounds more than fair, Dr. Deegan." He clapped his hands together, making her jump a little.

"Good, very good. I have a simple contract here for you, and you will need to place your hand here," He removed a sheet from his desk drawer and a large flat black square. "For your hand print access." Trista looked over the contract she took her phone out and snapped a photo of it, something she often did when presented with a contract. She signed her name and placed her hand on the black square. A red dot appeared at the bottom, then a loud beep and the light turned green.

"Well done. A password and access code will be sent to your primary email and will be active within the hour. Now, if you don't mind me asking, whom do you have in mind for your next subject." Dr. Deegan's eyes lit up with interest and Trista hesitated only a moment. "I want to explore Maximillian Zenon." He clapped his hands again. "Excellent! He is a fascinating case. I think you'll see we have made a lot of progress ourselves with him, yet he still remains quite the enigma." Trista nodded thoughtfully and stood to leave. "I suppose I should get to work then."

Trista didn't know where to begin. After the obstructing stumbling block that was Dr. Ruth Adams, having free access to not only patient files but the patients themselves was a little like finding yourself out in the world after years in prison. Her password worked for almost everything, though she noticed the files had a few black bars over certain portions of the information. When she tried to remove them it required a higher access level. There were more than a few files locked in a similar fashion but the information available was more than enough for her. The file on Zenon had both the police and patient records and Trista copied the numbers she would need to start. Even though a lot of the information on Zenon's background and crimes were here, she preferred to gather her information herself.

The Temple of the Divine Spark was still in operation, although the main headquarters in Gotham has been shut down. The one running the operation in Zenon's absence is Derick Rodham. Getting an interview with him is notoriously difficult. All the higher ups in the Temple are inaccessible to the public and even the lower levels of the cult. The headquarters in Gotham was actually a high rise apartment complex where the members of the cult lived in isolation. They had their own schools, stores, gyms, and theaters. This is, of course, one of the requirements of any cult. Isolation from outsiders, make sure everyone around has the same beliefs, keep any dissenting opinions out. Access to the leaders is restricted to sermons and ceremonies. Make sure they don't see them as people with flaws and faults like their own. Anyone within the temple who would know anything worthwhile wouldn't talk with an outsider, even if they claimed to be impartial or even sympathetic. Secrecy and mystery are the key to any religion, especially a new one. Let them think about it too long and they sober up, their rationale starts to come back. Tell it to an outsider without the proper build up and salesmanship and it all sounds ridiculous. You have to keep dazzling them with new performances or instill enough fear in them that they wouldn't dare look away.

Trista was not a fan of religion, to say the least. Her own parents were the mildly religious types. They treated church as a community center, a place to get to know the neighbors and gossip. They didn't even own a bible. Church had the same importance to them as a book club or a favorite bar. They didn't even make Trista go. It was an elective activity like joining a soccer team. You'd think such a soft approach would allow her to come into the religion on her own and really embrace it. All she saw in those churches were old people chanting and chatting, waiting to die, and little kids trying not to scream from boredom. Trista supposed some people needed religion the way some people need inhalers or allergy medicine. She just didn't require it to live her life. Maybe if religions understood this instead of trying to force it on other people because they think that if THEY have to have it, everyone else has to have it and they either don't know they need it, or they are suffering in silence out of pride or delusion.

Anyone who broke away from the Temple had to go into hiding or risk being harassed or even killed by other members. This was something everyone in the upper levels of the cult expects. Any member who leaves the Temple has turned their back on them and is considered a traitor and an enemy. There were TODS in many major cities, though they are the most prominent in Gotham. Trista took a bus downtown and found the former headquarters of the Temple of the Divine Spark. It was still in use as a church and business hub, but it no longer housed members and high level administrators. According to their website, which contained only the most bland and inoffensive ideals and information, they were establishing a new headquarters in Los Angeles. It has been 5 years since Zenon was sent to Arkham, and the TODS seem to be trying to be more open and appealing to the public. A table has been set out in front of Olympus Tower with a large banner saying 'Temple of the Divine Spark: You CAN be HAPPY!' Several salesman types sat smiling behind the table. Trista took a pamphlet and looked up at the tower. There had been an increase in homeless people all over the country. Many of them having severe mental problems and defects. These were not your typical transients. Before they turned up on the streets, many of them had normal lives and childhoods. The only connection between them was an interest in the Temple. When questioned about this, the temple denies they were ever members, even showing their records as proof. Yet every case had n undeniable pattern. They showed interest in the Temple, they told their friends and family they were joining, and then nothing until they turned up on the streets, often in different parts of the country. And these were just the cases they've been able to identify. They all show signs of electric burns around the cranium, and they all have little to no memory of their former lives or the Temple. We have no idea what happened to these people or why.

Richard Stedman was the only ex-member of the TODS that hadn't been on every news outlet or published any books on it, this was what made him interesting to Trista. The anonymous interviews and ghost written books by the other ex-members were dubious as best and didn't really meet the standard Trista held her sources to. Richard was different. He hadn't changed his name or gone into witness protection, in fact he hadn't been involved in the case against the TODS. He might be the only one who has an unbiased opinion. He lived out of state so she had to take a plane down to Tennessee. Stepping off the plane was the first step outside of Gotham in months. It felt like stepping out of a cold dark room and into a bright and sunny day. It wasn't even sunny but it felt warm and inviting compared to Gotham.

She met Richard at his home in Nashville. He was younger than Trista by a couple years and stood bout a foot taller than her. He had a long neck and a sandy colored goatee, black and white plaid dress shirt and slacks. He looked like someone's IT guy.

"I want to apologize in advance if my opinion of the Temple isn't as dramatic as you might hope. I've been told my interviews were unusably boring for most media outlets." Trista smiled as she set out the recorder.

"That's what I was hoping for actually. You're the only ex-member that hasn't gone into hiding or released a tell-all book about it. I want an honest opinion of what it was like, and more specifically, what Zenon was like." He seemed relieved at that and he offered her coffee before beginning.

"I don't remember joining the Temple, it just felt like I'd been there all my life. It was every tech boy's fantasy. Access to the best computers and devices, game rooms, every kind of service or entertainment was there. Its not like people think, we weren't trapped there, we could go out anytime, we just didn't want to. These other ex-members, the things they said about the Temple were exaggerations and dramatizations. They said it because the media would believe it, because it was what society wanted to hear about the Temple. We have learned to expect any new religion or organization to be a dangerous cult, they were just giving them what they expected so they could sell their story. Everything we could ever want was provided. We weren't forced to do anything, but we were expected to learn. Chemistry, physics, trigonometry, programing, engineering. We were all expected to study and contemplate electricity both scientifically and philosophically. That was the main focus. That was what Zenon called Zeus."

"The basic hierarchy was three divisions. In the first and broadest, you had the craftsmen. These were lower level members and were responsible for labor, maintenance, and paperwork. Believe it or not, they are the only level who receives salaries. The two higher levels are completely supported by the craftsman level. The next level is the Guardians. They provide security, law enforcement, and safety. They were the ones going toe to toe with the Batman and the cops when they raided. They had these electro-stimulators that built muscles in their sleep so they were all in top physical condition. I've seen them do incredible things, impossible things. The highest level are the Philosophers. They were the minds behind everything. All art, writing, poetry, and lectures were given by them. They were the poorest members in the temple, but they were held in the highest regard. These men were mathematicians, quantum physicists, philosophers. They are modern day Socrates', Leonardo Davincis, Michaelangelos. They use cranial stimulators and brainwave manipulation to raise their IQs to astronomical levels."

"I know this all sounds amazing, but it all comes with a price, and that price is the human sacrifices." Trista leaned back, surprised.

"Human sacrifices?" Richard nodded.

"Its not what you think. These were volunteers for human experimentation. They ran a lottery to choose their subjects, unless someone volunteered for it. These were considered the most sacred members, those who sacrificed for the greater good. They allowed for the development and improvement of all the incredible technologies developed. Mind enhancement, body modification, disease treatment, memory alteration. These were the tools that allowed them to rise above the outside world. It was the memory alteration that finally brought it home to me. I realized I had no memory before being in the Temple, I began to wonder. If they can alter someone's mind, they can justify anything. How did I know I came to them willingly? That I hadn't objected to it? They told me it was always voluntary, but I only had their word on it. For all I knew, they strapped me down, kicking and screaming. That was when I drifted away."

He looked depressed as he said it. "I got it into my head that they were manipulating me, everything they said became suspicious. Eventually I packed my things, grabbed a few files I thought might give me leverage, and ran. I knew I wasn't the first to run. They told us about them and that they were traitors and should be ignored. When I went to the government for help I was contacted by the press within hours. They wanted the full story, the horrors I went through, how I escaped. They wanted an epic drama. They offered money and shelter so I took it, on the condition that they find my real parents and help me discover who I was before. They loved the idea. I could see the hunger in them, the need for a compelling story and I started to understand the exaggerations of the others. When you're alone and frightened in a world of strangers, you do and say what ever gets you friendship or money. I had this vision of my real family. Good natured father, probably builds model ships as a hobby, loving mother who taught school children before retiring early. Maybe even brothers and sisters. Do you know what I found?" Trista shook her head, expecting the worst.

"My father was killed in a drug deal gone bad 9 years earlier, and my mother had been in prison for 6 years after making mother daughter porn with my little sister." Trista's mouth fell open.

"I was in the foster system before I came to the Temple. The records show I moved from home to home, sometimes twice in a single month. I was violent, crude, and dangerous. I had been doing drugs heavily. I was heading for prison or an early grave. The Temple changed all that. They gave me a clean slate, removed unacceptable traumas from my past so I could make a new future. I'm healthy, happy, I'll be applying for Stanford this year, majoring in engineering. I have an amazing life now, thanks to the Temple." Trista shook her head, amazed.

"So why not go back?" He sighed and looked away.

"They wouldn't let me. I had turned my back on them and broke a bond of trust. They said I was free to live in peace outside the temple, but that I would never be accepted back." Trista sat back in her chair. This was not what she had been expecting. From what it sounds like, this cult is doing great things for people. Can all the things said about it in the media be lies?

"Excuse me a moment, I have to make a call." He nodded and watched her go into the next room.

Trista felt strange calling Daniel, but something about this wasn't right. Could they be wrong about this cult? She needed a sobering voice, a cynical smack to the head.

"Speak!" His voice came from a distance like he was shouting at the phone from across the room.

"Dan, its me. I'm interviewing that ex-member of the Zeus cult." Crashes and bangs from the other end.

"What? Do you miss me? What the hell do you want?!" Trista felt her anger clear her mind a bit.

"It sounds like we might be wrong about the cult, like maybe what the media told everyone about it was wrong. He seems genuine about it and they won't let him back in so he might be telling the truth." More crashes and his voice suddenly boomed directly into the phone.

"GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF, FOOL! Don't take any guff from that swine! You think that drone is unbiased? That he has nothing to do with them anymore? Lies! He's a martyr!" Trista looked over at the doorway, he was still sitting, quiet and content.

"What are you talking about?"

"A Martyr. Someone deliberately cut off from the cult and sent into the outside world to talk it up. The smiling heads outside with pamphlets and handshakes are for the ignorant masses, martyrs target the sceptics and academics. They appear unbiased because they left the group, but they speak favorably of it to make egg heads like you suspend your disbelief." Trista thought about it a moment. Was this just Dan being paranoid? He might be right.

"Watch his behavior, woman! Watch for the salesman behind the façade. And don't bother me again! I'm indisposed!" The line clicked and Trista went back out.

He was smiling at her and Trista tried to maintain the same behavior as before.

"So you say," She began, watching him casually. "That they have the technology to erase memories? What about creating them?" He seemed puzzled.

"Well, I suppose. They may have been experimenting with duplication of brainwaves. You isolate the memories of a person who knows a certain skill or knowledge, then simply replicate those connections and patterns in the brain of someone else." Trista nodded.

"So they could give you false memories?" He looked at her a moment. Trista shifted to the left and waited, a moment later he shifted to the left as well.

"I don't know what they can do. If they can duplicate memories they could give someone a college level education in an instant, mastery of a skill, years of experience. They could make people geniuses." Trista crossed her arms an waited.

"Or they could make people think what they want them to think, believe what they want them to believe." When he crossed his arms too, she knew. He was pacing her. Subtly copying her, becoming a reflection to put her at ease and get her to trust him.

"I suppose that may be true." He smiled. No disagreement. Safe and easy way out.

"What about the hundreds of brain damaged people rescued from the Gotham headquarters. Some of them were incapable of speech. Were these the human sacrifices?" He made no change to his demeanor.

"Some of them, perhaps. Volunteers for the progress of technology."

"Or victims of technology. If their memories could have been altered or erased, wouldn't that make consent invalid? How would you know who volunteered and who was simply picked out for some other reason. Punishment maybe?" He leaned back, breaking his mirror image of her, his smile faded the slightest.

"I guess we can't know." Trista leaned back, imitating him now.

"I guess not. So what about Zenon. Have you met him?" Richard's smile vanished and he seemed to look at Trista differently.

"I have seen him from a distance but I've never spoken with him. Only a select few have that privilege. He is a brilliant man." Trista shrugged slightly and she could see the spark of anger behind his eyes.

"Genius is one thing, living god is another. Do you think he is the scion of Zeus? That he is divine?" He seemed to struggle with this. It was as if he felt he were being watched, that what he said might be heard by someone dangerous.

"I don't know what to believe. I believe he is the greatest mind in history, that he will move all of humanity toward a brighter future. I believe he can do this. I believe anyone capable of such a feat is extraordinary, divine or not." Trista nodded, appreciatively.

"Adolf Hitler moved humanity too. He did what he believed was for the greater good of the human race and moved beyond good and evil, or so he thought. We all know how that turned out." Richard's face was stone blank.

"If that's how you want to see it. Hitler was a fascist megalomaniac, not a scientist. Not a philosopher. He rose to power by appealing to the worst in people. Maxim brings out the best in us. He took me in when I was scum, and he reshaped me into a good man. Who else can do such a thing for people?" Trista set her phone behind her in her seat casually. She had set it to call the phone she had lifted off the IND which was in her car.

"You believe that, but what if they MADE you believe it? What if they gave you a future by taking away your free will? Is that a fair trade?" Richard said nothing.

"Well, I think I have enough here. Thank you for speaking with me. I'll let you know if I need anything further." She packed her things and left the phone on the seat behind her.

In the car, she listened to her phone. Steps. The click of a receiver.

"This is Richard. She just left. Classification SP. Threat level, orange. License plate 2JL 49BW, Trista Martin, Regal Suites Hotel, Gotham City, room 305." Trista jumped at that. He knew where she lived? She hung up and went back to the door. Richard opened the door with obvious confusion.

"Sorry," Trista said with feigned exasperation.

"Forgot my phone." She went to her seat and grabbed it, showing it to Richard with a smile. He said nothing, only watched her leave.

All the way back to Gotham, Trista was looking over her shoulder. Anyone who's eyes lingered on her too long may have been a cultist following her. The stories she read about ex-members being harassed to the point of suicide and critics being followed and black mailed came back to her. She was getting paranoid.

"A paranoid is just someone in possession of all the facts." She muttered to herself, something Daniel always said. The TODS were still in operation, even with their messiah in Arkham. But did that change them? Is Derick Rodham continuing Zenon's vision, or is he turning it to his own ends? What is the goal of the Temple of the Divine Spark? Trista needed more information before she could face Zenon himself. He is a master of manipulation and she had to be ready to cut through the bullshit with him. She needed to find one of the ex-members who went into hiding. And she needed to make sure the cultists weren't following her. She would have to get Daniel's help.

As soon as she got back to the hotel she rented a different room under a different name and paid for both rooms. She would be moving her things from one room to the other gradually to throw them off. When she got back to her room she could tell it had been entered. They cleaned up and made the bed like a room cleaner would but her things had been moved, something the staff never did. Anger flared up in her and Trista checked her things to make sure nothing was taken. She grabbed her laptop and called a cab, heading for Tommy's place.

"What did I tell you about these people? Fucking cock sucking fascists!" Daniel was stomping around the room while the scanner was working on Trista's computer.

"Who the hell do they think they are? The CIA? Fucking black ops bullshit from a bunch of brain damaged technophiles!" He was waving a paper around, the words 'Cease and Desist' on the header.

"They think they can obstruct the free press with this shit?! They think I'll roll over and back off like those other gutless swine who dare to call themselves journalists?! They are fucking with the Duke of Bastards now!" Trista felt a little better listening to him rage. For the first time she was glad he was here. Dealing with psychopaths is Trista's forte, dealing with shadowy cabals was more Daniel's style.

"What about finding one of the ex-members? Can your contacts in the press locate them?" Dan seemed to have forgotten she was there. He blinked at her a moment.

"Of course. I'm a Doctor of Journalism, woman! Nothing is beyond my reach." He looked at the letter again and crumpled it up before throwing it out the window like a fast ball.

"I'll tell those fuckers to send their next litigation on 4 ply so I can wipe my ass with it!" The computer made a noise and the scan had found several spyware programs.

"What ever they put on here is gone now. They really want to make sure we don't say anything about them."

"Of course!" Dan shouted, pointing a finger at Trista. "Theocratic fascists have no respect for the truth! They don't want to enlighten people, they want to control them! They don't want you to understand them, they want you to obey them! These are the archenemies of journalism!" Trista shut down her computer and packed it up.

"Let me know when you have a lead on one of the ex-members. I'll be going over the Arkham files." She left Daniel to fume and think while she called a cab.

Trista left Gotham for the second time, this time heading for New York, Gotham's older brother. Dan had found one of the cultists hiding in a broom closet and stomped him before swiping his phone and kicking him to the curb. They now had a list of contacts within the church as well as a calendar of their activities. They had Trista's license plate and car model so she borrowed a car from a friend of Tommy's and drove north to New York in a huge white Cadillac town car. Kathryn McKinney left the TODS a few years before the raid on its headquarters. It took 3 years for her story to come out after years of legal fees, harassment, and threats. It seemed like no one was willing to run the story until the news broke of the raid on their headquarters. After that there was a bidding war for the rights to the story and Kathryn was sent into witness protection after an attempt was made on her life. She was living in the mountains of New York near Tuxedo in a cabin. The first thing Trista noticed was the hundreds of notes covering every appliance and door. Reminders, names, rent amounts, numbers. There was no car in the driveway. Kathryn was about 10 years older than Trista with salt and paprika hair tied back in a bun. Her hands shook the slightest bit.

"I'm sure you noticed my notes." She said, motioning to the room. "I have memory problems. Forgive me if I repeat myself or forget your questions." Trista smiled sadly and said it was no problem.

"My long term memory is fine, its just the short term that comes and goes. Usually Olga is here, she's my helper, but she had to be somewhere today." Trista sat back in the recliner, recorder in one hand.

"Were your memory problems caused by the Zeus Cult?" She nodded, wincing slightly. "Among other things. I had undergone ECT to improve my memory and brain functions when I was a member. It was amazing at first. I could remember anything I wanted, the color of the wrapping paper at my first Christmas, or the taste of my mother's breast milk. Answers came fast without even thinking. I felt like a computer. It wasn't until later the side effects became serious. I started having seizures. I would get migraines for days at a time. When I brought it up with the Temple they simply told me the ECT was still under development and that my side effects would be noted for future testing. That was it. They put me back to work with a new pain killing electrode and that's all. I started having memory problems just before I left the Temple."

She took a moment to look at her notes and looked up at Trista with confusion. "I'm sorry, I lost my train of thought. What question were we on?" Trista smiled sympathetically.

"What drew you to the Temple?" Kathryn nodded with a smile. "Oh right. I'm sorry, I have short term memory problems. Forgive me if I repeat myself or forget your questions. I was a student at Gotham University. I was studying Physics and Computer Science. I came to GU from Montana because I knew Maximillian Zenon had taught here and I was a great admirer of his. I received an invitation to Olympus Tower I thought it would be for a lecture or seminar. Instead it was like a religious revival. They had this huge stage set up with tesla coils and faraday cages. We were all given touch screen tablets, something that wasn't even on the market at that time. It was like stepping into the future. There were various speakers who talked about the philosophy of science and electricity, metaphysics, and the origin of life. I had never been a religious person even before I became strictly Atheist, but this wasn't like the religions I'd known. This was modern, logical, scientific. I felt an amazing surge of energy and connection with their words and the cheers of the crowd. I felt whole. After that I joined up and never looked back."

Trista finally started to see the appeal of this cult. A group which reaches out to the disaffected atheists and agnostics created by the outdated religions of the world. A religion of science, math, and futurism. It was the same tactics of the cults in the 70's. The youth culture was sick to death of the militaristic Christian totalitarianism that rose up after WW2. They wanted anything new, anything unstructured and unusual. So the eastern gurus descended on the land, teaching free love, psychedelic drugs, and anti-materialism. Now we see those pot heads for the immature perverts they were, but our disillusion with organized religion turned to cynicism and we became antitheists, or casual house wife spiritualists. In an increasingly secular world, a religion that embraces technology, science, and modern ideals is a unique opportunity for our generation. Or at least it seemed that way.

"So did you know you were being experimented on? Did they inform you of the risks?" Kathryn shook her head.

"When you join them, your loyalty and consent is expected. They shouldn't HAVE to tell you the risks, because they expect you to do it for the greater good. If I were to object or ask too many questions, they would turn on me. Peer pressure is a powerful thing. It was a bigger risk for me at the time to object than to question. Of course now I wish I had." She looked out the window, which had several notes taped to it. "I can't even drive a car anymore, because of my seizers. I'll need medication and support for the rest of my life. I can't even finish my degree because I'd just forget what I studied in the middle of the test." She was crying now, and Trista felt her throat tighten and her eyes getting hot. She shook her head.

"I'm very sorry." Kathryn looked at her, surprised.

"Sorry for what?" She looked at Trista for a moment and her smile faded. "I'm sorry, I think I lost my train of thought." She wiped the tears off her cheeks and looked at them with confusion. "Must be my allergies again. Sorry about that. Where were we? I think I might have been in the middle of answering a question. I'm sorry about that. I have short term memory problems so forgive me if I repeat myself or forget your questions." Trista sighed with a smile and told her something had come up and they would have to reschedule the interview.

Dr. Deegan met Trista at the entrance to the SCP wing.

"Today's the day, yes?" He smiled his dentist smile and watched her behind dark glasses. As they walked he spoke without looking at her.

"I must say, he has taken an interest in you, as have his people." Trista almost stopped.

"How could he have known I wanted to speak with him?" She looked at Dr. Deegan distrustfully but his smile never waivered.

"In exchange for cooperation and technical support, we allow him the occasional communication with his people. These are of course monitored and recorded. It seems you've caused quite a stir in their ranks." His smile seemed to widen and Trista had to look away from him.

"Seems kind of compromising to allow someone undergoing mental treatment to communicate with his victims." Trista watched him out of the corner of her eye but Dr. Deegan didn't seem to notice her criticism.

"Our treatment program is experimental and quite progressive compared with the typical treatments. When dealing with unique minds, it is necessary to employ unique methods. You understand, yes?" They reached the door to his cell, the monitor showing the inside was dark. Dr. Deegan turned to Trista and his smile retreated to an unnerving grin.

"Before you enter you must understand something. Maximillian is not a dangerous man, at least not in a physical sense. He may say things which may disturb you in many ways, he may do things which seem innocent but may later prove to be serious. I will need any and all electrical devices on your person, they will be kept safe until you are finished." Trista was a little annoyed at being treated like an amatuer. She handed him her phone and recorder, leaving the one she had taken from the IND in her back pocket.

"will our session be recorded in your files? I'll need access to it if I can't bring my own recording device." Deegan's smile widened.

"Of course. You must understand, these measures are for your safety. Only a few months before, there were electrical problems in his room. Nothing serious, some exposed wire, a shorted out fan. One day the orderlies saw water seeping from underneath the door. When they opened the door they found Zenon sitting in the lotus position in the center of the room in the middle of a growing puddle from a sink which was overflowing. When the orderlies tried to get his attention he was unresponsive at first, but when he opened his eyes they said the whites of his eyes were glowing blue. He told them not to approach the altar or they would feel the wrath of Zeus. One of them went in to get him and the moment he touched the puddle on the floor he received a massive electric shock which stopped his heart and he fell over dead. He other man ran away. When the maintenance crew came they tested the voltage of the water Zenon had been sitting in, it showed over 2000 volts of electricity traveling through it. After we cut the power and removed Zenon, we found he had been removing lengths of wire from various outlets and devices within the cell until he had enough to reach the center of the room. He then rerouted many of the circuits to increase the voltage. For what purpose, we can only speculate. My point is, Ms. Martin, his is a dangerous mind. We have x-rays, showing several foreign objects and wires within his body, perhaps designed to protect his vital organs from electric shock, or to store or manipulate it in ways only he may understand. Caution is advised, Ms. Martin."

Trista looked at him with uncertainty before turning to the cell door, reasserting her confidence before entering. The inside was pitch black, the only light came from the open door which cast a long rectangle of light across an empty room devoid of furniture. Zenon sat cross-legged at the back of the room just outside the rectangle of light.

"Ah, a pilgrim. Approach us." His voice was like sandpaper, the rarely used voice of a hermit. All around on the floor Trista could see mathematic formulas scratched into the floor, impossibly complex and covering everything the light illuminated.

"Max, would you kindly light the room for the young lady." Deegan spoke from the doorway, a dark silhouette. Zenon moved and the lights faded on. Zenon looked dried out, he wore a simple robe around his waist and Trista saw the network of reddish brown patterns across his skin, like roots. She could also see several spots which seemed to be holes, like the ports on a computer. He looked at her with an empty calm, not like the cold emptiness of Zasaz, but more like a man who was half-asleep. He seemed not to see her, instead looking straight ahead as though in a trance. Dr. Deegan looked to Trista with a grin.

"Mr. Zenon has complete control of the devices within his cell, all with wireless connections made possible with the devices in his body. All except for the locks of course. Quite remarkable. We had to disconnect his cell from the usual systems after he proved impossible to keep out. If you require assistance you need only knock at the door, an orderly will be there to assist you." He glanced at Zenon who remained unchanged and turned to leave.

'Yea, look upon me and know me as I know thee. Thou seest before thee a man, bound and shackled to this place of reform; an asylum for the mentally fallacious whereupon treatment is administered for the benefit of those who fear the unfamiliar. Behold what I, a God, from fabricated God's endure. Look down upon my shame, the cruel wrong that wracks my frame, the grinding anguish which seeks to waste my strength. They hath devised these chains, the newly throned false potentates which reign over the world of man. The false idols of human society." Trista sat on the floor in front of him. He was tall, even sitting down, and she knew he preferred to look down at people.

"Do you understand why you've been imprisoned here?" Trista asked watching his eyes focus on her for the first time.

"For boons bestowed on mortal men I am straitened in these bonds. A God ye behold in bondage and pain, the vessel of Zeus and one at feud with all the false gods that find submissive entry to the tyrant's hall; mine fault, too great a love of humankind."

"So you believe you are helping people? Even the people you've hurt or destroyed? Was it all for their benefit?"

"Alas, all things are a burden save to rule over all; for none is free but Zeus. To that ye answers not for ye know it to be true. No doubt thou thinkest me infirm of mind. With such ease thine mind casts away that which it cannot fathom. Alas, thus it has been necessitated by one's own nature that the path which least resists thee shall be the only path ye walks."

"Why Zeus? Why does he work through you?" The barest hint of the smile came to him then.

"Thou seest before thee a man, but in truth, the man thou seest is merely a vessel. What layth within such a vessel if not the soul of a man? I aim to show thee how mine vessel hath become a celestial host to a divinity far beyond any human soul, how mine vessel was chosen to bring tidings of joy and the return of true human potential and pure spirituality. Draw closer and open thine ears to my tale."

In the beginning, there was the spark. Twas this spark which begat the electromagnetic connections, which begat attractions and links. Chemicals, acids and bases, reactions on a molecular scale, all coalescing and forming what can be called a human life. Cells powered by moving electrons and chemical reactions divide and replicate, working in tandem and through unity to form tissue, bones, organs, muscle, and eventually, humanity. Such was the genesis of mine vessel. A vessel crafted through centuries of genetic blending and attractions, in addition to favorable environment, to be granted the capability of withstanding and containing the awesome force of true divinity. Thus a child was born and named Maximillian Zenon by his parentage. Thus was the child raised and groomed to live life as a human. However, forces began to converge which sought to place the child in mortal peril. The child's father was himself a man of status in the world of men, yet had become consumed by madness and sought to inflict harm upon his offspring. Yea, so great was the father's irrationality that he believed his own children sought to betray and destroy him, seizing his power and prestige by his passing. Consumed with paranoia and fear, he began to murder his progeny one by one. The chosen child was spared only by the intervention of his loving mother, who would stealeth him away in the night before his father could terminate his existence. Once free of his filicidal father, the child traveled with his mother across lands vast and wide, long didst they seeketh refuge and safety. Weeks became months became years, the child grew and learned the ways of man. From a young age he displayed an interest in the sciences particularly those committed to the study of electricity."

Trista wasn't sure if he was telling the truth about this. If he is, then his life is eerily similar to the legend of Zeus. A father who murdered his own children only for one to survive and usurp him. It could be true, there wasn't much information on his family history.

"Upon becoming a man of age, the child had acquired great knowledge, accolades, and wealth amongst his peers. It was then the man sought out his treasonous father that he may pay for the crimes he had committed against his brethren. Yea, upon finding his forbearer, the man was loath to discover his father had sired more children since their parting and these offspring now stood in defense of their abhorrent father. Armed with the truth, the son waged war with the father in the realm of law, emerging after much strife and difficulty the victor. His father was to be bound within a penitentiary for his crimes, his accumulated wealth and estates were granted to the vindicated descendant and all justice hast been well served. Having been crowned a king among men, the young man returned to his study of the sciences and the power of electricity. These were the Halcion days, filled with peace, progress, and discovery. His reputation among men grew as his discoveries and inventions inspired awe among even the learned. Yet still something disquieted the man's sleep. Some purpose yet unrealized. He believed it could be found in his research and began experimenting in earnest. Years passed and still the revelation eluded him. He began taking long constitutionals beyond the clamor of the metropolitan, seeking the truth in solitude and inner reflection. Revelation struck him on one such constitutional. Whilst crossing an open field a surge of power exploded within him with a mighty peal of thunder. He had been struck by a bolt of lightning in the open air of an ordinary day. Struck by the mighty touch of nature itself, pushing thousands of volts of energy through him. He was thrown to the ground and apparently lay dead."

Trista had it then. The markings over his body, they were burns unique to lightning strike victims. As the electricity passed through the capillaries in the skin it causes them to burst and burn, resulting in painful scaring beneath the skin along the lines of those veins. That also explained his change in behavior. There have been cases of survivors of lightning strikes experiencing an unexplained change in character. One man, who had been a doctor, was compelled to play the piano and composed music, something he had never been interested in before. Trista felt her heart in her ears as she tried to contain her excitement. Zenon didn't seem to notice.

"For three days the all-seeing circle of the sun rose and fell, for three nights the curtain of stars drew across the sky, when on the third day the man rose and cried out, not in pain but in joy. The touch of the divine which a mortal man would slay had touched him and he yet lived. His body, though scorched, remaineth intact. His mind, though tangled, still looked upon the world with understanding. Upon his skin had been branded the mark of power, vast cracked lines split out from each other across his skin like the roots of a tree or the forks of a lightning bolt, red and shining. Something in his mind awakened then. He could sense an eye upon him staring straight down and cleanly through, seeing all that he was and everything he could ever be. Thus he spoke to the divine and thus the divine did speak in return. He was given clarity and understanding as no human had been given before. He knew the intricate complexities of existence and the vast power which connected it all; a power which he himself knew well and had named it electricity but now knew its true name; Zeus. He whom even the gods who are not his natural children address as Father, and all the gods of human history rise in his presence. He who inspired the fear and awe of man in every civilization and country on the globe from the nomadic primitive days to the days of enlightenment and progress. He who is the cause of life always to all things. He whom the romans called Jupiter, whom the Egyptians called Amon, whom the Etruscan called Tinia, whom the Phrygian named Sabazios, and whom the Hellenizing Jews named Ba'al Shamen."

"The temple which lay at the heart of this man had remained empty of any idol save the sciences, leaving it open and welcome to a true divinity the likes of which he had never imagined. Beside himself with joy and vitality, the man returned to his place of discovery and began creating miracles of science and power the likes of which humanity had never witnessed. Never had his mind been so clear, never had his answers come so quickly. He also discovered the touch of the divine had altered his body. He felt depthless energy within him at all times, so much so that he needeth only a short respite to recharge his spirit at night. This energy he felt within him made his body conduct an exorbitant amount of heat from which it felt no reprieve so that he had to devise ways to dissipate this heat lest it boil his insides. Thus he had developed a special system designed to absorb his body's excess heat, converting it into power to be stored for later use. Upon exploring these phenomena he found his body had become conductive of electricity, producing a charge heretofore impossible for the human body. With a mere touch he could power devices, raise the temperature of objects and generate and store electrical charge. Most astounding still, he found he had become immune to electric shock and could withstand contact with devastating voltage with no ill effect. His depths thus plumed and the fruits of his efforts harvested, the man now went back into the world of mortals to bestow these celestial gifts upon them."

This must be the disastrous Wayne Center conference, his last known public appearance before forming the temple. The footage of his strange behavior and speech were something of a cultural joke after it happened. Some claimed it was fatigue, others said he'd been suffering a flu at the time, most people just thought he'd gone crazy. Maybe they weren't too far off. Who the hell talks like this? How can anyone take someone so eccentric seriously. Trista shook her head and tried to focus on what he was saying

"There was then a great tumult and much rejoicing as he presented his innovations, but as the man began to speak the word of the divine which had blessed his heart the hearts of man drew back. The false idols of man's design had forged in them a great fear of truth and new ideas and they recoiled at the revelations the man presented them. They called him deceiver and fabricator. The miracles they had so readily embraced were now rejected and the man's heart did sink into despair. "It is not yet the right time." He said to his heart. "They do not understand. I am perhaps not the mouth for these ears." They looked upon the man and laughed and while they laughed they hated him too. Must one batter the ears of these men that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and preachers of repentance to be received? What is it that makes men proud? Education; that which distinguishes them from the sheep herds. Thus they dislike to hear of the knowable which they deem the unknowable. Thou academics who denyest that anything beyond the known can be known, and thou dogmatics who claimest to know all there is to know. With a heart heavy and a discouraged spirit the man returned to his solitude. Human life had grown uncanny and bereft of meaning. So heavy was the stone of disillusion upon his heart that he was nearly crushed by it. His heart had meant only to teach men the sense of their existence; that great truth which flashes like lightning from the dark cloud of the human soul. Alas, he was still far from them and his sense did not speak to their senses. Dark became the night and dark became the ways of Zeus."

The lights in the cell began to dim so Trista had to focus hard to make him out. He certainly knows theatrics.

"Lo the midnight of the soul doth approach, so sayeth the man to his divine patron, "O lord, how far hath humanity drifted into the vast quagmire of self-deception and folly? Is mine hope a folly? Shall mankind be doomed to drift beyond salvation? How can the ears of men be made to hear and their eyes be made to see? Many are the enemies of truth and much power they have amassed in thine absence. Prithy, grant me the way into the hearts of men that I might draw them back to the true potential of humanity." Thus spoke the man into the temple of his heart and in reply there did come the voice of power itself. "Yea, do not relinquish thine hope, humble vessel, for truth shall always and forever set the souls of mankind free. Thou goest to mankind with righteous intention yet thine mind thou hast failed to employ. Thou goest to them as a man, yet thou knowest thyself to be greater. The hearts of man would not be swayed by the words of a man, they must be swayed by the actions of a God. One must maketh thyself into a model by which man shall measure himself, by which man might judge himself." Yea, this would be his purpose and these would be the methods he was to use."

His eyes began to glow a light blue in the dim light. It was disturbing, unnatural. Trista could feel her chest tighten. There looked to be blue sparks just barely visible dancing across his skin. He was making her nervous.

"Thus didst the man change himself into one worthy of carrying a God within him. His body was made resplendent by technological means, his visage rendered otherworldly by devices of his own design. Thus transformed, his name would be changed as well. He now named himself Maxim Zeus. Thus the man truly created a vessel fit for Zeus himself and stepped into the world of men once more. Lo, this attempt would not be to walk amongst the academic and dogmatic, no. This time he would call out to those who are not invested in the status quo but rather suppressed by it. To those who work and toil for the false idols yet receive no recompense. And lo, Maxim did send out the call, to all the spiritually dissatisfied, to the unwanted bastard children of God, to those who truly believeth in the evolution of the human race. Lo, Maxim did go amongst the people and all eyes were affixed upon him. He spoke no words but went straight to his work. He came to a disheveled vagabond and spoke thus to him. "Thy mind hast betrayed thy life. Broken and poorly assembled hast thy God made of thy mind. Behold the true potential of thy life." And then did Maxim reach out to the man and touched lightly his despoiled brow. As the current passed from Maxim into the mind of him, wide became his eyes and slack became his jaw. As the connection was severed the man cried out in elation. Thus didst the fog lift from his chemically addled brain, thus was the man granted a moment of clarity. Not ceasing in his work, Maxim came next upon a man robbed of his sight. Then did Maxim approach the man and did place his hands to each side of the man's head. "Thou hast not eyes to see," Spoke Maxim. "Thus hast God and the medicines of man forsaken thee to darkness. Behold, one who understands the nature of the electric. Behold the power of one who does not shy away from truth, for it must be known that all that is magnetic is electric, and that even light is but a form of electric magnetism. Thine eyes are not absent, thine brain still functions, though thou canst perceive it, I assure you light remains in existence. What thy lacks is the electric signals which thy mind interprets. What thy lacks is the spark." And thus didst Maxim lay his hands aside the man's head and thus did the man exclaim loudly. Sight! Vision! His eyes once more did see. Now the crowd hath gathered around them and spoke in amazed wonder at the miracles Maxim hath shewd them. When he saw the eyes upon him he held out a hand that they might listen. Thus spoke Maxim Zeus to the enraptured about him.

"Hark, the mind of man hast lost all connection with the divine. No longer is the presence of God within their hearts. So far have they drifted from the holy sovereignty that they no longer fear God. Deities hold no sway over the minds of this age. The God they acknowledge is an absent God, a God which exists in theory alone and which has no power over the world. God is not an equation to be pondered by man; God is a force to be discovered by man through experiment and risk. Mankind had long ago buried God and now perceives the churches erected to Him as gravestones in memorium. Their belief now springs from convenience and sentiment alone. When the hand of Zeus did withdraw from the world of men so then did mankind find itself free of His dominion for the first time. Alas, so weak was the heart of mankind that they flouted this freedom and crafted for themselves a ruler of their own design; a monarch which watches over them from beyond sight and influence. The newly crafted God now sought to conquer man not through presence of authority and power but through the subjugation of the human spirit. A reversal of the morality and valuations of men was enacted by the new idols. No longer would man be free, nor encouraged, nor honest. All things a man can accomplish were taken away from this life and this world and placed in the next. Mankind had been made to suffer and kneel in this life that they may be truly free in the next. Man's life and spirit became an ignominy unto him, a thing to be hidden away and repressed. Man's freedom was chained to the stone of guilt and shame which called itself purity. Man's courage was stolen by grief and fear which named itself wisdom. And, crime of crimes, man's honesty was defiled by illusion and self-deception which wore the guise of faith. Now was action discouraged, now was boldness punished, now was life to become a penance paid for a wrong imposed upon the hearts of man by the false idols which man itself created. Thus is the way of the worst of all deities, which guides the will of man, not through power achieved through free, honest, courage, but through the collective dampening of the human spirit. Thus didst man deceive the heart of man into believing itself incapable of power in and of itself. Thus was man's only true purpose to be found in utter subjugation to the one true God. This," Zeus intoned, "was the poison with which the soul of humanity was now septic, and this was the true significance of Zeus' return. He would be a liberator to the self-enslaved. He would break the chains within the hearts and minds of all men and grant them passage to the long forgotten realms of human courage, spiritual freedom, and self-liberating honesty." Thus didst Maxim Zeus speak to the people and greatly didst they cheer and applaud. This was to be the first of Zeus' flock. This was to be his destiny delivered unto mankind. Zeus was to be a God of the modern age resurrected from an ancient age; a God which does not reject the progress of humanity and seeks the empowerment of the human spirit."

"From this first gathering did Maxim select his apostles. They would be the instruments by which Maxim was to draw more unto his flock. They would be the architects of Maxim's exhibitions, and from these exhibitions the curious became the devout. Maxim became the current which activated the light within their hearts and soon many hundred hearts were connected and powered thereby. Upon his apostles and faithful didst Maxim bestow gifts of progress; electrodes to empower their minds, batteries which drew power from their bodies which in turn powered electromagnets and stimulators; granting them energy and ability heretofore unknown to the human body. So quickly didst the flock of Zeus grow that it became necessary to expand not only the facilities but also the organization methods. Then was the Tower Olympus built and the Temple of the Divine Spark founded."

Trista felt compelled to say something, anything, if only to reassert her presence here. His act was getting to be overwhelming.

"Was Derrick Rodham among those apostles?" He looked to her blankly, breaking his trance and causing the lights to go back up slightly.

"Verily. He was one of those draw to me that day and remains mine most loyal apostle." Trista felt a bit more relaxed.

"So you think he will run the temple as you would? You don't think he might change it, turn it to his own ends?" A smile came to him them, a knowing, clever smile that was the first real flash of the man he once was Trista had seen.

"His will is mine own. His soul is synchronous with mine own. He does indeed turn it to his own will, for his will is mine own." Trista studied him for a moment. A thought came to her, a gut feeling. It danced just beyond her reach and she lost it when he resumed his story.

"Those who would bind me here and dissolve mine creed, they hath crafted deceptions in thy minds of my order. They name us cultists and zealots. They brand me extorter, a wolf in sheep's clothing, enslaver of men. How quickly doth the false idol accuse me of the very crimes it enacts upon the people. When the false idols create systems of hierarchy meant to subjugate and force the lower to climb up through the debasements and iniquities of those positioned above them to have any power, they call this capitalism. When the false idols place the charismatic and deceptive at their helms to take credit or blame accordingly, they call this democracy. When the false idols spread comfort and convenience to lull the populace into a trace of complacency and to make their minds susceptible to suggestion, they call this entertainment. When the false idols make dull the minds of the people by surrounding them with repetition and ostracizing or separating those who do not conform to this repetition, they call this culture. When the false idols demand action by entrenching the people into one group mind that they may base their lives only on the doctrines accepted by the group, this they call society. When the false idols give their people an ultimatum for commitment to their society, this they call social responsibility. These crimes the false idols have committed upon the people, yet because they do not call it criminal it is not a crime.

Trista shook her head. "What about all those brain damaged people? The ones left disabled and lobotomized by your experiments? If you don't think of it as a crime, why wipe their memories and send them off to different cities to wander the streets? Why do you control them? Why sacrifice those who trust you most?"

"Thou mayst accuse me of these crimes against the people of my order and unto you I sayeth, the end result of one's actions justifieth the means of one's actions. I taketh away the possessions of my devout in order to free them of being possessed. I enslaveth the devout in order that they may learn true freedom. I terrify them that they may learn courage. I separate them from their past that they might craft a future for themselves. I breaketh the spirits of men that they may be rebuilt and become fortified thereby. I crush them with guilt that they may know true pleasure beyond all guilt. I burden them with grief that they may know love beyond grief. I shame them into submission that they may understand the power of will to overcome all shame. I deceive them that they might better recognize truth behind all lies. I surround them with illusion that they may possess greater insight into the illusions of the world. I forge a cage of attachments about them that they may learn to shed all attachments and find true enlightenment. These things the false idols have declared as my crimes. They believe I am an enemy to my followers and to that I agree. I am their enemy that I might be their truest teacher. These crimes I commit against my people are committed openly and fairly. These crimes must be committed in order to break the hold of false idols and convenient belief on the hearts of men. I must be steadfast in my fight against the idols of false hope. I must defeat those who offer salvation through deception by offering salvation through destruction."

Trista didn't know what to say to that. Was it any more wrong than governments sending soldiers to die for them? Was it any different than people who gave their lives to a church or organization they believed in? It was wrong, but only on the small scale. The things men like Zenon attempt to create seem to move in a realm above right or wrong. It was just too big for Trista to judge. The lights faded back on and Zenon seemed drained.

"Alas, the hour grows late. Though I am bound here still, know that the faithful remain ever vigilant. Though the false idols have sent their champion, the Batman, against me to destroy all hope for my devout, know that my disciples continue in my absence. Though they hath branded me a traitor to mankind, know that those who know the truth shall set me free. The battle was lost yet the war goes on. Blessed is he whose transgression is public, whose sin is not covered. Blessed is the man unto whom Zeus imputeth iniquity, and in whose spirit there is much guile. Thus shall the meek inherit nothing, thus shall the greatness of man inherit all. Amen."

Zenon bowed his head and Trista stood to leave. "A moment, child." He spoke softly. "I would ask that thou grant me a boon. If thou excepts, we shall grant thee an illumination in exchange." Trista looked puzzled.

"What kind of boon?" She didn't know where he was going with this.

"You carry on your person an object which does not rightly belong thee. Though thou hast acquired this item innocently, we must ask that you return it to the Tower of Olympus that it may rejoin its brothers." Trista was shocked. She didn't think he could have known about the phone. She had only brought it as a bargaining tool if he proved to be unwilling. Trista nodded. At that, Zenon made a sweeping gesture with his hands, holding them out to her.

"We give thanks and accept thine word as truth. For our repayment, we require the object for only a moment." Trista hesitated. She didn't think he could do much with it, nothing that Dr. Deegan wouldn't be able to stop if he was watching, which she assumed he was. She pulled out the phone and dropped it into his hands without touching him, remembering the story of the orderly who'd been electrocuted. He held the phone aloft and pushed a few things on its screen. At that moment the lights went out and the room went silent. Trista stepped back. She could see the glow of his eyes in the blackness and they didn't move at all.

"This is for thine ears alone for Coeus hears all within his realm. Coeus hath taken dominion over all here, for he hath had them bestowed upon him by the creator and sustainer of Dikaiosyne. Coeus is not as he seems. Seekest thou the truth of the eyes. Seeketh the Mad Arab, Charon, defiler of death."

There came a bang on the door that made Trista jump. A muffled shout told her the guard outside was unable to open the lock. He must have disabled everything in the cell. She was trapped here. Ignoring the suffocating fear, she tried to listen to what he was telling her.

"Coeus hath spun a vast and deadly web. He seeks to bring the Keres to Gotham. He believeth Deimos, Pothos, and Aitee are his tools that he might awaken the soul of Lyssa within us all. Dolos hath replaced Eris whom knows of Coeus' plot and hath conspired with our humble vessel as well as Achlys, Menoetius, Phobos, and Hecate to weave the strings of discord throughout. Consider this warning my repayment. Leave this place. Leave Gotham before it sinks beneath the morass, like Atlantis before it."

Trista felt her brain scrambling to remember everything he'd said as the lights came back up. She blinked at the brightness a moment before seeing the phone on the ground before Zenon, who sat in his lotus position once again. She scooped it up and pocketed it just as the guard opened the cell door.

Trista was expecting Dr. Deegan to be angry about the phone she had, or at least surprised. Instead he seemed even more excited. He lead her out and asked for a copy of the article wen she finished. Trista felt numb. Overwhelmed. What as he talking about? Why did he have to make sure Deegan didn't hear him tell her that? None of what he said made any sense. Those names were from Greek mythology, that much was true. The instant she was away from Deegan, she grabbed a pen and paper and tried to write down everything he said as best as she could remember it. Once outside she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. This was turning from a research project into a covert ops mission. She wasn't sure she appreciated that. She took out the phone he wanted her to return. It didn't seem different. She took a cab to Olympus Tower to get rid of it before she forgot to.

At the tower, a guard who had to have been 7 feet tall greeted her in the lobby. He reminded her of Croc slightly, that quite menace that triggered her fight or flight reflex. As soon as she took the phone out a look of shock came over him and he immediately made a call to someone. Trista tried to hand him the phone but he refused to even touch it, looking at it the way a devout believer looks at a sacred relic. Within moments two men in dark suits appeared with a metal case. Trista gave them the phone and they seemed to have the same sense of awe about it as they locked it in the case and thanked her profusely. The huge guard continued to look at her like a celebrity as she turned to leave, feeling thoroughly confused. It was when she was walking down the steps to the street that something struck her. That fleeting idea she'd had in Zenon's cell, that one she didn't grasp. She was wondering to herself if the guard had had his memories altered like the others when Zenon's words came to her. "His will is mine own. His soul is synchronous with mine own." They can alter a person's memories, change and insert new ones. Could they duplicate Zenon's memories and personality and alter the mind of another to reflect it? Is Rodham no longer Rodham, but Zenon? Has Zenon created a kind of immortality? She had to sit down. Her heart was racing as the immensity of this possibility dawned on her. She almost couldn't believe it. She had to set it aside with the other questions, like what the hell was up with that phone she'd given them? What the hell was Zenon trying to tell her back there? It was just too much to process and she had other things to worry about. For now, she needed food and sleep. Maybe something to take her mind off it. Anything.