Disclaimer: I do not own Batman. Bob Kane, Bill Finger, Alan Grant, Norm Breyfogle, Jeff Loeb, Tim Sale, Alan Moore, Paul Dini, Bruce Timm, and all the other fine writers of the Batmanverse - I bow to you! :D

A/N: 4SeasonsChick, Batfangirl773, Trudes193, thank you all so much for the reviews, and thank you Akuma Takeshi Jagerjack for Following/Faving. You guys are the best. :)

This was a challenging chapter to write. If something doesn't make sense or you see any glaring plot holes, please let me know.

-0-

Redemption, Restitution, & Resurrection

-Chapter Seven: ANGELS AND DEMONS-

-/-/-/-/-

"Zsasz- what happened to your marks?"

The words were there, but they weren't sinking in. The horror remained on the woman's face. Zsasz chanced a glance at his own body.

A slow wail began in his head, the knives slipping from his grasp, though he never heard them fall. That strange feeling he had, that all this time there was something wrong—

He looked down at his skin, cautiously raising an arm.

The feeling you get when the whole world stands still – that was the horrible feeling Zsasz felt all of the sudden. Like the butterflies in his stomach had sped up, only to abruptly die. He felt cold.

As his eyes slowly traced every inch of his own skin and Danielle's words reverberated in his head, a million memories suddenly snapped into place:

"-I need a new mark!"

"I need to make the kill! I can't- waaait!"

"He marks his skin with a tally for each victim…"

"-Saw him in the Botanic Gardens, no doubt acting out some twisted fantasy-"

"EVIL, EVIL, EVIL MONSTER!"

"I have marked my skin with your life! My body is a temple dedicated to your memory!"

"I have a special spot saved for you. Do you want to see where?"

"Zsasz is a maniac. He cut my buddy Ash in places I don't even like to think about…"

"-Unrepentant homicidal lunatic, known for tallying his body with scars or 'marks' to represent each kill he makes… Stay away from him when possible, bring backup when you can't-"

"OH GOD! OH GOD HE'S GOT BILL! CALL FOR BACKUP!"

"Do you like my marks?"
"How many marks do you have, Zsasz?"
"I have 487 marks on my body, Danielle. And soon your collection will rival mine. Let me see them now!"

"I need to make the mark. It's all I have left…"

-/-/-/-/-

Shaking, he raised a hand to his forehead. Nothing.

"WHERE ARE MY MARKS?!"

They were gone! All of his marks were gone!

Zsasz doubled over, shivering and shuddering.

Every inch of his skin felt wrong. All the victims… everyone he had ever killed… his temple… his life's work… Everything he had built! Everything that mattered to him! All GONE!

He screamed, a chilling feral noise, fingers clawing desperately at his own skin, nails digging into the flesh of his forehead and drawing blood. "What have you done?" he growled, body pitching. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" He swiped the air madly, knife materializing faster than Danielle could see. She took a fearful step back, and Zsasz turned, facing away from her.

"Quit laughing at me! Mocking me in my own head, oh, you will pay for this!" he groaned. "I will find you! I will slice you up until your blood covers my skin from the holes I cut into your body! You-" he took a deep breath before screaming once more: "YOU STOLE MY MARKS!"

Danielle's head spun. He isn't talking to me. A chill went up her spine. Zsasz…is hearing voices? This isn't normal — even for him. Something is seriously wrong. The compassion - that wretched compassion - was returning. He didn't deserve it, and yet-

She watched with horror and pity as Zsasz continued to shout, clawing at air and skin with his hands.

"Who did this to you?"

Zsasz looked up, and Danielle involuntarily took another step back. A lone drop of blood fell lazily from his forehead from the scratching he had done. His mouth was slack and he looked so…lost… So much like one of her students.

"Someone did something to you," she spoke with as much courage as she could. "Your marks, whatever voices you're hearing… Something happened to you, didn't it, Zsasz? I've never seen you like this before…"

Zsasz stared blankly at her, his hands moving restlessly over his arms and chest. She tried to calm the agitated man.

"We can figure it out, Zsasz…Victor. Just tell me what you remember-"

Abruptly he ran. At first she flinched, thinking he was charging her, expecting to feel cold steel piercing her flesh.

But he ran past her, not touching or looking at her, disappearing into the fog like a ghost. She heard him gasping, almost retching.

He's out of control. Something bad's going to happen if he goes away.

"Zsasz! Victor! Victor!" she called after him. He kept running, too quickly for her.

If I don't move now, I'll lose him! I can't lose him! She snatched up her purse. Her phone clattered to the pavement, but she couldn't stop now, not as she pivoted to follow the man—

WROOoo! WROOoo! WROOoo!

That noise! Where had it come from? Abruptly red and blue lights burst out of the fog.

The police… Damn it! She turned and noticed with frustration that Zsasz was long gone.

"Miss?" the flashlight was too bright on her face.

"Yes, officer?"

"Did you call for police, miss?"

"Yes, officer. I— was attacked. By Victor Zsasz."

The officer exchanged a startled glance with his partner. Suddenly both men looked about to wet themselves.

"A-are you injured? Um, where- where did he go?"

She pointed. "He went that way… But officer…" She remembered the fear in his face, the total terror, and looked sadly down at the pavement. "I don't think he's a threat at the moment."

Running… crying in the streets… running to salvation that did not exist… where could he go? He was…lost again… Lost in the fog…!

The cold bit, and yet he did not feel it. He was again a blank slate.

Purposeless.

A long shadow peered out from behind the grandfather clock. The time read 10:47pm. The air was crisp and foreboding, even indoors. Pale light filtered in from outside; it seemed all of Gotham was concealed within a fog soup, especially here, so close to the seacliffs.

The clock shut with a soft click, and the shadow slipped deeper into the house.

Grand portraits, shimmering gold trophies and trinkets, the faint smell of cloves and roasting turkey – this house could have everything a man would want to steal, but no, it wasn't money or possessions or even food that the mysterious shadowed man wanted… Well, that turkey did smell good, come to think of it…

It grew darker as he moved stealthily down the hallway and further into the house. A floorboard creaked. The shadow paused.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The ticking of the grandfather clock, loud in the dead silence.

Good. The man let out a slow sigh of relief. No one was awake. No one would see him come—

"Darling, is that you?"

The man in the shadows stopped, but before he could conceal himself, the light snapped on and an irritated Selina Wayne stood in the doorway of her bedroom, yawning and scowling. "What are you doing sneaking around in the dark?" she asked as she pulled the man into the light.

Bruce Wayne, her husband, smiled sheepishly.

Catwoman stopped yawning and then gave him an impish grin. Batman felt a blush rising to his cheeks. It seemed that the lady of the house was suddenly in a better mood.

A plate materialized in front of him, laden with sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. "Eat something! Geez, Bruce, you've been out half the night! You weren't here for dinner and look at you!" Perplexed, Batman looked down at himself and then raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Obviously not what I meant…hottie!" Catwoman swatted him playfully, before running her hands over his butt. She leaned close and Batman could smell vanilla and patchouli. He took her in – really took her in – and admired the curves her dark black lingerie brought out. His wife was glamorous, that much was clear – and she had not stolen a single diamond or jewel since he had proposed to her two and a half years ago. She hadn't had to. Though she would have done it anyway for the thrill, she found that being married to Batman, life had afforded her…other thrills.

Catwoman in turn studied Batman. Even unmasked, he carried himself with the same vigilante's poise. He identified more with being Batman than with being Bruce Wayne. She understood – she was the same way. Cupping his cheeks, she couldn't help but notice the fine lines forming around his face. At 42 years young, Batman was aging. He looked so…weary. She tilted her head. He had never been the same, not since the Joker's death.

Even when his body was home, his heart was always out on those streets.

She wished she could join him.

"So, Mr. Big Detective," she scolded, "what was so important that you had to miss Thanksgiving dinner? You know Alfred might not ever forgive you, by the way..."

"It was Calendar Man," her husband rasped, the first words he had spoken since returning home and un-suiting in the Batcave.

"What'd he do this time?" she asked with interest.

"A little stunt with exploding turkeys." He ignored Catwoman's astonishment. "No one was hurt."

"Is it just me, or has he been steadily going more wide-scale?"

"You mean since the good old days when he only murdered a single family on Thanksgiving so he could enjoy their meal?"

"Very funny." She pointed to the plate in his hand. "Eat up, before it gets cold!"

"Where is Helena?"

"Asleep," Catwoman purred. "She took forever to finally go down. Kept asking about 'Daddy'." Her eyes twinkled. "I think you might be her hero."

"Oh?" His eyes softened at the thought of their one-year-old feisty princess. To be honest, he thought she took more after her mother. He pulled Selina close, inhaling her lips with a deep passion, loving her for giving him their daughter, their little family. He heard Selina sigh breathily.

He pulled back gently. "Can I see her?"

Arm and arm, they went down the hallway and into the baby's room. A nightlight cast a slight shadow over the cradle in the center of the room.

An angel lay sleeping among soft blue blankets, one tiny thumb curled against her face, body spread and relaxed. A black cat lay curled up around her tiny feet, fur prickling as she sensed their arrival. Helena's eyelids fluttered gently as Bruce planted a kiss on his daughter's cheek, long black eyelashes rustling. She had her mother's face - though when she was awake, she had her father's crystalline blue eyes.

He looked up to find Catwoman staring at them, her eyes glowing at the display of affection. Together they drew out of the room, closing the door. Selina was still smiling at him in the semi-darkness, and he took a piece of the turkey from the steaming plate. "Not bad! Did Alfred try a new recipe?"

"He's been experimenting with certain spices. He couldn't wait for Christmas to try the cloves…"

"It's perfect! With a hint of mead…"

"Well, the mead was my idea. We were almost out of white wine."

"Odd…"

"We used some of it yesterday. There was a celebration in the office. The merger worked out—"

"You mean you did it?" He could scarcely believe it. "You secured the renewable energy deal with Tate Enterprises?"

"Don't look so shocked! It was like stealing jewelry from a Vreeland!" Catwoman smirked. "The old man put up a fight at first… he was worried about a repeat of his experiences with LexCorp… but I got him in the end."

"How'd you do it?" he grinned. "Your famous charm?"

She shrugged casually. "I told him about WayneFuel's competitive stance against LexEnergy, and also about the Wayne Foundation's many charitable donations to the Avery Mountain Lion Sanctuary. He just about tripped over his expensive shoes to sign the forms!"

"You won him over mentioning the mountain lion preserve?"

"I noticed his name at a wildlife charity event a few weeks back."

Batman shook his head. "Who would have thought? Former oil baron Hiram Tate, renewable energy and wildlife supporter!"

Selina smiled. "And how about you, Mr. Big Detective?" she stepped close to him again, and he involuntarily caught his breath. She trailed a manicured finger down his chest. "How was your night? Aside from your run-in with Julian, I mean?"

His expression became grim. "I had a word with Benito Sobalvarro. He sang like a canary once we spent some quality time together. Seems like the Falcones are starting trouble again in the shipyards."

Catwoman stiffened. "Oh really? Is it the old man or Alberto's operation this time?"

"It's looking like the Roman. I haven't heard any word about Alberto, ever since the altercation he got into with Calendar Man… He's become a ghost."

She rolled her shoulders slowly. "Want me to do some sleuthing?"

"For now I've got this, but I might need your help at some point."

"Well, you just let me know, I would love to sink my claws into that old bas—"

"Selina…" he said softly.

"What?" she tilted her head. "The baby's asleep, I can swear—"

"You know that isn't what I meant."

She sighed. "You know I'm going to have to get involved at some point, right? Me and the old man have unfinished business."

"I get it," he hated seeing her unhappy, even if she was hiding it. "You know I do. You're a strong woman, a strong person—"

"I'm your ally, Batman. And your wife."

"You don't have to impress me. I'm already here for keeps," he smiled. "If you want me to handle your father—"

She shook her head. "Not a chance. Like I said, he and I have unfinished business. Hell, it might even be cathartic…"

He put his hands gently on her shoulders. "I know… and it's your call. The way that Catwoman has been there for Batman so many times… this time, I'll be right beside you."

She looked up into his earnest eyes, the eyes of the man she loved, and sighed deeply. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just, after that business with the Holiday killings… and what I found out about him…" She chuckled. "Bet this wasn't what you pictured when you thought of having in-laws, was it?"

"I don't know…" Bruce mused. "I dated a girl once whose father wanted to wipe out most of humanity—"

"Ah yes, the Terrorist," Selina said dryly. Bruce's eyes narrowed ever so subtly. It wasn't because of Rā's, she knew, but rather because of Talia.

Sometimes she wondered… But no, she must not think that way. He had chosen her. He could have decided to mourn Talia for the rest of his life, and maybe some part of him always would mourn, would always look back to the night in the Monarch Theatre when the Joker gunned her down, just a second faster than Batman could react. She knew that Talia's death, like so many others', lay heavy on his undeserving conscience. And even though he should never have to bear all that guilt, as she herself had told him many nights... she would not expect anything different of him. His love for Talia, for so many other girls, for the Batfamily, for Alfred, for her and Helena, heck even for the Rogues' Gallery in their own weird way… his big heart and compassion was one of the reasons why she loved him so much. He wouldn't be him without it.

Yes. Her husband would always love Talia. But he had chosen her, Selina, and not for the first time. She and Bruce had their own rich history together, even before Talia — she was no one's replacement. So long as he never chose Talia's memory, or any of his other girls, over her or their little family, she could live with it.

"Well, 'the Terrorist' hasn't been heard from in four years," Bruce murmured. "I'd say I'm sorry he's dead, but he has a habit of being woken up by his zealots."

"Hopefully if he's out there somewhere, he'll decide to do something more peaceful with his time," she said cheerfully. "Like cultivate bonsai trees."

Bruce chuckled. Selina's heart swelled.

"Come here, darling. Speaking of in-laws… there's something I have to show you." She led him upstairs, to a wing that was slightly dustier than the others. When he saw where they were heading, his jaw tightened subtly, apprehensively. He glanced over into his wife's soft, emerald eyes. There was no malice in her gaze, only understanding. Trusting her, he allowed her to lead him up to the doors of the Wayne Manor Master Bedroom; only then did she let go of his arm.

The Master Bedroom had not been touched in years. Alfred went in there occasionally to dust the photos and make sure the moths stayed away… but Bruce Wayne had never expressed an interest in taking over the old room – the room of his parents.

His mother's dresses still hung in the closets, alongside his father's suits, greying as the years passed. A grand portrait overlooked the room. Bruce knew every detail from memory. He had spent hours in there as a child, weeping quietly on his parents' bed, wishing so much he would open his eyes and it would all have been a dream, and his parents would by lying on either side of him, asleep and safe. But he had never woken up from this horrible dream. It was the same each time.

After a long time, Alfred had learned not to bother him when he was in their room, reliving the memories, grasping out for even a small piece of his mother and father. But when he came out, Alfred was always ready, with some food, maybe a story, and more often than not a photo album or some anecdote about his parents, especially his father, and little Bruce's tears would momentarily dry. Momentarily… Perhaps that was the reason why he had donned the cape and cowl… the memories could never be erased, and they had never really lessened.

His heart was pounding as he grasped the doorknobs and opened the big doors of the bedroom. It took a moment for his eyes to gather in what he was seeing.

A lone candle sat on one of the side tables, flickering, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon. The furniture had been dusted recently, and the picture of his parents looked as mournfully beautiful as ever.

The room was filled with vases of poinsettias.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat again. Beautiful red poinsettias adorned the room, like delicate paper decorations. The biggest bouquets were right next to his parents' pictures, and the deep red added warmth to the portrait, making his parents' faces seem more alive. The flowers were spread all over the mantle, on the small tables and dressers around the room. Hanging over the main mirror was a shining golden star, glittering in the dim light. He blinked for a second, before turning to his wife and affixing her with a serious look.

Selina gulped. Had she angered him? She knew this room was special to him – had she overstepped by coming in here? Had she violated his sanctuary? She had only meant to decorate the room for the holidays, share the festivities and honor the parents-in-law she would never meet. The silence stretched on as Batman stared at her, and his unwavering gaze made her shiver a little. Or what if he wasn't angry at all – what if he was in agony, remembering, having horrible flashbacks? Oh, she should never have meddled—

Bruce grabbed her to him, crushing his chest against hers. She could feel his heart thundering.

"Thank you, Selina…" he whispered.

Blue eyes opened hazily. Awareness was slow to come, and for a moment, the world remained dark. Was it Thursday or Friday, day or night? The smell of faintly burnt wood reached his nostrils. Wherever he was, the air was cold.

He sat up, groaning. Pieces of wood bit into his back, staining his skin with charcoal and rust. He was lying on a ridge, he realized, a wooden platform long ruined, in a burnt-out shell of a room. The roof had a large hole in it. Fleetingly, he remembered waking up in a similar place, full of fire. Had he survived a fire last night, or the night before? No…it was a while ago.

He looked down at his skin, but quickly shut his eyes, tears stinging closed lids.

When he opened them again, he was staring into a mirror, and the rings around his eyes were darker than he imagined. How long had it been since he had looked in a mirror? He could only remember seeing his shadowy reflection in the window of the convenience store – on that horrible day when he realized something was wrong, but didn't know what.

Now, he realized with a sickening lump in his stomach, he wished he had never known. Ignorance is bliss.

The reflection pouted back at him, soot and dirt streaking his skin, a filthy degenerate lost manchild… without his scars. His skin was dirty, yes, but still naked. Still …markless. Unremarkable.

He cracked a brief smile and winced at how much worse he looked. The sad-eyed reflection… he looked like he needed to cry—

Harshly Zsasz whipped away his head. He. Would. Not. Cry.

'Pathetic.'

"Go away," Zsasz murmured.

The wood creaked but did not break as he slid down from the platform. There were the steel doors to the hideout. Holes in the walls, with cars crashed and smashed and broken, the charred sign "Ghost Train" painted on one of the sides… "Are you a ghost?" he whispered. "Are you… my ghost? Sent here to haunt me?"

The Voice did not answer.

Each footstep was like lead, going further into the building. Perhaps a lifetime ago, a man had owned this building, and here he had smelted and forged his dreams. An empire. Until he fell. Zsasz wondered what had happened to ruin him, to leave this golden testament behind, slowly turning to rust. There had been drugs here once, he saw in one of the rooms. So much more… But that was before. He cared to know this before, three days ago when he discovered this place. He had been so eager, uncovering the past, like an explorer…

Now, he was consumed with his own loss.

My marks… I have nothing now. No dreams, no past …no future? Nothing to live for.

'So melodramatic…'

The Voice sounded cross. Zsasz felt his teeth clench. Why? What on Earth does it have to be angry about?

'You know that this will set back our plans…' he could hear it slithering in again, like a snake from the pits of hell. The sense of coldness, of aloneness, deepened in its vile presence …and there was nothing Zsasz could do, but listen to its sinister words. 'So unfortunate. So many people you could be harvesting, and yet you sit here a broken mewling shell of a once-great and ferocious warrior.'

"What have you done?" His own voice was quiet. It wouldn't do any good to shout. It wouldn't undo what had happened. There was just one question. "You stole my marks… why?"

'It was necessary. In order to become the perfect killer, you needed to lose all ties to this world. Only when you have nothing left to lose, are you truly free.'

"Free? You stole my marks, you stole my identity! Who are you to do this?"

'I am your master.'

"You are the devil!"

'It was necessary to reset your body, to do away with your…'marks',' The Voice sneered. 'You needed to make room for more people. Now…' It chuckled. 'Now you may refill your body. Or better yet - do away with the compulsion altogether! It will take too long to liberate the world if you must count each and every person you slaughter. Start a new tradition...friend.'

"What sorcery did you use to steal my marks?!"

Zsasz stood at the top of the stairs, watching as they wound down, further and further into darkness. It was very high up, a full story to the next landing, and two more stories beneath. He took the first step, and his stomach lurched.

'Imagine… your blade thick with blood, humanity broken and yoked, lying in the dust at your feet. The path to a new world, paved by you, Killer...'

Why are there so many stairs? The dizziness in his head was getting worse. Wouldn't it be much easier if I simply leaped down to the bottom, instead of walking each and every wretched step?

The Voice laughed maliciously.

"They were meant to be remembered," Zsasz sobbed. "Each one of them… I was meant to remember every kill. I saved them!" He looked down at his skin frantically. "And now they're gone…"

He stumbled on the next step.

'Each of them was meant to be forgotten. Humanity is meant to be forgotten!'

He could hear the roaring of the furnaces across the way, feel the heat wafting through the walls.

Finally. At the bottom. The dizziness was killing him now. He barely made it to a crate and slumped down, gasping, trying to make the pain in his stomach recede.

For hours the Voice broke him. He listened… He had no choice. There was no way to make the dreaded intruder go away as it violated his mind. It berated him. Taunted him. Forced him to look down at his body, to see what he had become, what it had taken from him. It gave him a headache with its incessant chattering.

It told the deep dark truth.

He was nothing. Nothing without his marks. Just a tool. His purpose in life lay with the knife.

He tried to sleep. He couldn't. The Voice kept talking.

He tried to stand. The pain in his head and stomach worsened. He lay flat on the ground.

What is happening to me?

Hours, possibly days later, he made it to the phone on the other side of the room. Heart pounding, he dialed her number.

BRRIIIING! BRRRIIING!- "Hello?"

He wanted to whisper her name, to seek solace in her, to kill her.

"Why were you not fast enough, zombie girl?" he slurred, barely able to talk above the pain. "Hunh? If you were sorry as you claimed-"

"Zsasz?" she sounded concerned. "Where are you?"

"You shoved me over a railing, left me to die, let the angry ghosts mutilate me- and then you just- watched… Ahh... You could not figure out what was happening to me in time!"

"Then tell me! What's happening to you? Zsasz!"

"If it weren't for you, I would be walking around happy, slaughtering people, saving people… You. You cost me everything. Danielle… I hate you, Danielle…"

"That's understandable, but listen-!"

"When I feel better, I will find you and bathe in your blood!"

He heard her take a deep breath on the other end of the phone.

"I can tell that whatever you're going through, it isn't normal. I know you're hearing voices, and you must be scared-"

He scoffed.

"You don't have to do this alone, Zsasz! Maybe- Zsasz?"

"I…am listening…"

"I've been thinking about this, ever since… you know, ever since I saw you again. I don't know how or why you lost your marks-" He cringed "Maybe this is divine intervention."

"You think-"

"I know this sounds crazy! You don't even remember how it happened… But maybe you've been given another chance." He nearly gagged at the sickening enthusiasm in her voice. "Your marks are erased… Maybe this means you've been unburdened from your higher purpose, and you can live a normal life again. You- you don't have to choose to do this anymore. You don't have to define yourself by your victims anymore, you can seek out your own meaning! I can help you-"

"Help me? You think- you could help me?"

"I- I want to…" He heard so much foolish yearning in her words. But it was far too late.

"You don't understand," he growled, and then more softly, knowing that his last hope had been extinguished, "You will never understand." He hung up.

Was she crying? he wondered. Sitting dejectedly by her phone, listening into a blank receiver? He hoped that moment would haunt her for the rest of her life… however short it would be.

I should have worded it better, somehow. Maybe I could have gotten to him.

Hours later, she puttered around her apartment. It was storming outside. The bookshelves were still in front of the window. She regretted it a little; storms were beautiful to watch. Maybe she could open the bathroom window, stick her hand outside, and catch some rain in her fingertips.

"Maybe all his kills finally got to him…" she watched the raindrops trickle down the bathroom window, one by one, collecting and sliding in a rush together. "Could those be the voices he thinks he's hearing - all the people he ever killed?" She bit her lip, looking at the floor. "God…"

Zsasz defined himself by his marks… in a weird way, by his victims. She had always thought that they were a way of proving he had power over the people he had killed. Now that his marks were erased, maybe his power over his victims was finally broken. Maybe now they could all rest in peace.

Maybe now her conscience could rest.

Goddamn compassion. How could she ever be free of it, of him? All she had wished for these past three years was that somehow her tormentor could rest in peace, that maybe someday she could accept and overcome the guilt she felt, somehow comfort herself with the thought he would take no more victims. Now he was back… alive. Stripped of his "power", though not his murderous capabilities. Now she had the chance to lay down her guilt, and - what? She was worried about him now. Oh God. Her mouth fell open softly.

He must be truly sick to have become what he was… she knew he was. And getting sicker it seemed.

She was relieved when her phone rang, desperately needing a distraction. She knew, somehow, that it wasn't Zsasz. It wouldn't be. He wasn't in a good place right then, and she could tell - that phone call must have taken a lot out of him. Maybe it was her brother…? They had been discussing him moving to Gotham City sometime in the next year. Of course, that was before she found out that Zsasz was still alive-

"Good evening?"

"Hello, Miss Danielle Lee?"

"Speaking."

"This is Commissioner Gordon. Good to hear your voice again. I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday night but this couldn't wait. I've got some good news."

"What is it?"

"The person who was sending you notes…"

Danielle started. She had completely forgotten about the notes. "…Yes?" she asked cautiously.

"We got him!"

Within a few minutes of hanging up the phone, he regretted it. For hours and hours, he regretted not staying on the phone with the zombie girl, the smallest dimmest hope he had of staying connected to sanity. He wanted to call her again. But no… he had smothered that hope by his own choice.

And oh, it was lonely. So lonely with only The Voice there for company. Alone, with only a predator, one he knew without reservation wanted nothing more than his agony, his tears, his pain. One who savored it.

It mocked him for what felt like days. It reveled in his loneliness. It told him that it could help, if he would only do exactly as it said.

What was he to do? How was he to escape?

Slowly he realized that the only way to escape The Voice was to play along.

The Voice whispered instructions for him. Yes, I will follow. He picked up the knife.

Against the cold, grey, but thankfully dry sky, air fresh and clean from the storm the night before, he left the hideout. He walked speedily through the ghost streets, past thugs with no leader to own them. He wished so much that he could give one of them, any of them, the cursed voice in his head.

He strode up to the grand bridge. The water below was cold and unforgiving. He couldn't help but wonder how long the fall would take if a man were to plunge over the side. Morbid thoughts, but it was hard to keep them out. It was hard to think at all anymore.

He walked upon the bridge, plan in mind, toward his brightly glowing destiny...

-/-/-/-/-