A young couple rushed through the dark streets of Gotham; a muscular black man with a rugged five 'o clock shdow and a slim woman of decidedly mediterranean descent with long hair pulled back in a messy bun. In the woman's arms, a bundle of light blue cloth wriggled and cooed. A sleepy eyed baby, only several weeks old, burbled happily at its parents. The mother shushed the child as the father shot a wary look at their surroundings.
"Keep 'er quiet," he said, lowly.
"We shouldn't do this," the woman muttered back. "We should back out. It's not too late. I don't…" She trailed off looking down at the baby girl forlornly.
"We're not backing down, now," he hissed back. "It's what's best. When the Ancient Ones return, we'll be spared the torment, and we - all of us! - will live like royalty! Our sacrifice will be rewarded!"
"Our sacrifice?" She questioned, almost angry now. "We sacrifice nothing! None of us have! The only martyr here is her!" She nodded down to the baby who still hummed happily despite her parents' tone!"
"There is no greater sacrifice than one's own blood," the man replied, calmly. "To give up one's own life – whether for another or to escape hardship – is the coward's way." He stepped closer to the woman and child and reached out to brush his hands through the short curls on his daughters head. He looked into her eyes saying, "Remember that, sweet pea. Suicide is for the weak. And, the weak do not survive the culling. Live, at all costs. " The child stared back uncomprehendingly. She looked confused before cooing back wordlessly, wrapping tiny fingers around her father's hand as he pulled it away.
The mother frowned, but acquiesced.
Soon they reached a building; a condemned would-be beautiful church, its name long since forgotten and the cross taken long ago. They crept inside, the man removing a piece of plywood covering a hole and holding it aside as the woman carefully slipped in, child in tow. They climbed the decrepit stairs leading to the congregation hall; the woman shushed the now whimpering infant.
Lining the walls of the wide room were red sigils, written in some long dead language. On the floor, there were several large circular markings written in a sticky red substance. The room was alight with a variety of candles of various sizes, flames glowing sinister orange and sickening green. A group of about thirty people, all of different ages and ethnicities sat on the rotting pulpits, silent and staring straight ahead. A priestly looking man stood in the pulpit, pouring over a strange weathered, leathery tome. He wore an ornate black, gold and red robe. He appeared to be middle aged, thin and balding. He greeted them in what a way that would be friendly if not for the solemn, stoic look on his face.
"Brother, sister. You have finally joined us." He eyed the child. "I see you've brought the Binding."
"Yes, brother," they chorused together, although the woman was a bit reluctant.
"Very well," he raised his voice to address all the gathered people. "Brothers, sisters! It is time to perform the ritual! That which will hasten our master's return and free his chosen from their binding! Rise and gather around the circle!"
The group moved like so many puppets, sluggishly surrounding the circle, the priest, the couple and the baby. They began chanting in a strange, foreign tongue. The child began to cry, screaming and sobbing. The priest retrieved his book and placed it in one of the two smaller circles. Then, he turned to the man and woman. "Place the Binding in that circle there and step back."
The child's mother looked like she wanted to resist but, reluctantly placed the child in her husband's arms, stroking the girls hair. He placed the child in the circle across from the book. The child's wails increased in volume. The man and woman joined in the chant, tears running down their cheeks.
As the rhythmic chanting continued, the priest retrieved a vial and a blade. He sliced the screaming child's palm, collecting the blood and mixing it with the substance in the vial. He began speaking some sort of incantation and pulled a pitch black feather from his robes and dipped it in the mixture. He drew a line with the substance, connecting the two circles. It was an ugly brownish red with inconsistencies and lumps. He brushed the remaining substance on the cover of the book and on the baby's face, ignoring its panicked screeching. The priest then lit the feather with one of the green fames of a nearby candle and placed it dead center on the line between the circles. He stopped speaking suddenly and the chant broke off.
The fire surged in to the two circles, both of which broke into brilliant green flames. The book began to size and burn, but the baby continued to scream as if in pain now, but appeared to remain unharmed. It suddenly became horrific to listen to, a long and otherworldly sound. As the child's scream reached peak pitch, the flames got brighter and brighter until the priest and followers had to cover their eyes, temporarily blinded by the light.
And then, everything stopped. Even the candles.
The scream, the light, the fire, gone. The leathery old book was nowhere to be found and sitting now in the center of the large circle was the child. But, she was different. She was quiet. She stared curiously around the room; eyes that were previously a warm brown were now deep crimson. Marring her skin were glowing red sigils in various languages: Greek, Latin, Arabic, and several others as well as several symbols like those on the walls. Slowly, they began to fade black, as if someone had tattooed her entire form. The baby girl's garnet eyes found her parents. She smiled and clapped her tiny hands, the cut on one of her palms now completely healed. She laughed.
It was a normal laugh for a baby; a jolly chuckle that under most circumstances would bring a smile to someone's face. However, as the giggles continued, something strange happened. The cultists, her parents, all but the priest began to panic. They screamed and ran wildly to the door. The baby continued to laugh as they tried to flee from monsters only they could see.
The screams got louder and more horrified as the baby laughed on. Suddenly, they all tapered off and as if torn apart by rabid beasts, their bodies fell to the floor in pieces.
The priest ignored the corpses and picked up the child. She quieted down and looked somberly up at him. They stared into each other's eyes and remained motionless for several moments. Suddenly, the priest began to laugh a wild hysterical cackle. He sat the child down on the pedestal wear the book sat before, still laughing. The baby watched him as he rambled on still laughing. "Oh, Great Old Ones! I have done it! Are you pleased?!" There was no response as the girl continued to watch him. "Are you pleased?!" He seemed to hear something now. "What's that, my lords? Another task?" The baby seemed to be beginning to nod off. "A cleansing? A cleansing of fire? Then, I may join you? Thank you, Lords!" He lifted up a match, lighting it. He tossed it on his robes, which instantly caught as if doused with gasoline. "Thank you, Gods!" he screamed in both admiration and agony. He flailed and screamed for hours until eventually, he collapsed, his corpse still burning.
The child had long since fallen asleep and the strange markings that marred her skin were now nearly invisible. And, as the old decrepit church began to burn, an inhuman shadow was cast over her tiny form.
When the authorities showed up to investigate the strange fire, all they could find were 37 shredded, unrecognizable charred bodies. The next morning, a dark skinned, red eyed, elf-eared baby was found sleeping peacefully in a basket in front of the Gotham City Orphanage.
Eighteen years later...
A lithe figure skulked around the warehouse. Crates filled with an assortment of artifacts and works of art decorated the dim building. The figure glanced around, luminous crimson eyes sweeping over the perimeter. They flinched and ducked behind a crate as a loud pounding echoed. Jump City police rammed the door again and a voice rang out, "This is your last chance! Come out with your hands up! Surrender, thief!"
A distinctly feminine alto voice murmured, "Suck my dick," in response, although the officers couldn't hear. The shadowy figure slunk backwards, away from the door as it began to cave.
With a crash, the thick wood of the door gave in and like a swarm of rats JCPD flooded in, weapons at the ready. One gave a series of hand gestures and the small army split into two groups; one covered the left wing of the warehouse and the other, the right. The figure, keeping an eye on both groups, slipped between stacks of boxes, sincerely regretting attacking the security guard so openly earlier. Quickly, as the officers began to advance, rapidly approaching her hiding spot, she darted backwards, deeper into the warehouse.
"Open fire," screamed the leader. She skillfully dodged, almost dancing to avoid each shot. As she disappeared behind crates she waved mockingly back at the commander, blowing a flirtatious kiss and winking beneath her mask.
He growled before shouting, "Flank her!" The groups surged forward before splitting up again, walking to either side of the crates, their guns trained to the place they thought she would pop up.
"Sunova…" she muttered. She tucked her prize, a beautifully ornate wooden amulet, into her pocket and lifted a dagger to her palm, slicing it open. As the blood dribbled down, she whispered "Maledictaterra in qua defunctus vita novicogitationes et oddly corporeissunt, et ex malo et non estsensus, qui habet in capite." The steady stream of lifeblood formed the words on the floor in red script before glowing and spreading into a wide circle and dimming into what looked like black ink and eventually fading away entirely. She licked the cut and watched it heal up near instantly. She snickered. Stifling her grin, the thief walked around to the front of the crate hands held up to the side of her head palms out, careful to stay within the circle of text.
"Alright, alright, you got me," she said with false remorse. Slowly, she brought her hands out together in front of her, wrists limp. "I'll go quietly."
The commander smirked, pulling out a set of hand cuffs, saying, "Glad you see reason, girl. But, just to make sure there are no tricks. Move in, boys!"
The group surged forward, following their leader. The moment one of them stepped in the circle, the words reappeared, illuminating the entire room with a crimson glow. The officers paused, fear written on their faces as the thief's lips pulled into a sinister grin. She jeered at them.
"What…? What the hell is this?! What did you do?!"
She laughed; a cruel, contemptuous sound. "'Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head.'" She walked up to the commander and flicked his nose, grinning. He lunged to grab her but, found his feet locked in place. She strolled past him, whistling a tune as the police officers struggled to move from their places. She ignored their shouts and protests. "You're welcome to try and catch me again later, but until then, have a nice time boys. I've got a gift to deliver."
She strolled casually out of the warehouse, before pausing and sticking her head through the door again. "Oh, here, let me get the lights for you." She pulled a lever and slammed the door shut, plunging JCPD into stifling, maddening darkness.
Later, in a small, quiet teashop, an eighteen-year-old girl sat enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea. She sat near a window, ear buds in her slightly pointed ears and her crimson gaze trained lazily on her laptop. The sun gave her dark skin a bronze glimmer and, if one looked closely, almost highlighted near visible markings scrawled across her face, neck, and exposed forearms.
She scrolled idly through a series of articles on various topics- the mayor's affair, a bank robbery, a school fundraiser- before refreshing the page. She raised an eyebrow at the "breaking news" tagline at the top of the webpage. Taking a sip of her tea, she clicked the link and, to her surprise, was sent to a live feed of the warehouse she had visited earlier. With an amused smirk, she upped the volume and signaled to a waiter for a refill.
"…een Titans have just arrived on the scene. Hopefully, the team's magic expert, Raven will be able to overcome JCPD's curious conundrum. If you've just joined us, earlier today JCPD was called to apprehend a thief spotted sneaking into a museum delivery warehouse. Long story short, Jump City's finest were unable to apprehend the tenacious raiderand found themselves trapped in the dark warehouse as the criminal absconded with their plunder. …What? Oh! This just in! We have reports that the only thing stolen was a simple amulet. Apparently, it's made of wood and iron. Not worth much outside of the historical community. Maybe our wayward thief is a collector?Or, maybe they just wanted to cause trouble. More on this story as it progresses."
The feed ended just as the server showed up. She pulled one ear bud out.
"What can I get for you, Miss…?"
"Another Earl Grey, please. With lemon and an order of almond cookies."
"And, your name?"
"Lovecraft. Helen Peregrine Lovecraft."
"Lovecraft…? Like the author? Even your initials… What an interesting coincidence."
"Heh, yeah. My parents saw an opportunity and they took it," she hummed pleasantly. Then, with an dry smile, added, "Cthulhu fhtagn. Such a wonderful phrase."
"Ha-ha. Your order will be ready shortly, Miss Lovecraft," he told her. He walked off to fill her order.
With a sigh, she reached into her pocket and ran her fingers over the amulet. "A few more hours and I'll have my money." She sighed. "What a day…"
a/n: The Titans will show up next chapter, but for now, here's backstory stuff. Thank you for reading, please leave a review and tell me what you think!