Author's Note: Sorry this has taken so long, but here it is, chapter four. I've got a lot already written out – so hopefully there'll be more on the way shortly. On a slightly unrelated (MARVEL) note I'm trying to start up an X-Factor Investigations RP over in the forums, so take a look if you're a fan of that series, I'd really love to get it going properly: .net/forum/XFactor_Investigations_An_RP_forum/102672/
And now, our feature presentation:
Chapter 4.
"C-Commissioner. I, we..." Alec Mackenzie struggled to keep his composure, as he addressed Gotham's Premier Policeman – James W Gordon. Blood trickled freely for a vicious partially hidden by his mop of blond hair. A black eye and split lip and also adorned his features.
"At ease kid." Gordon tilted his head, trying to fix the lad with a calm stare – hard given the circumstances. "So who got you?"
"Ah, Flannegan, Sir, the ah – "
"Ratcatcher, yeah, I know. But you – "
"I got him back Sir. We locked him up again. But, uh, not before I – eh, broke his nose." Mackenzie grinned ruefully.
"Do we know who got out?" Looks like you Arkham boys pulled it together – you kept most of the norms?"
"Yeah, most – pretty near all. I-I think. But..." He touched his head, and winced.
"Take it easy kid, you don't – "
"I'm, I'm okay Sir. Okay, uh, jeez this is hard to say but..." Alec's face fell – he looked an utter wreck. "Isley, Lynns, Quinzel, uh...J-Joker, Crane, Nashton, Elliot, Dent and...Zsasz. Those – those we know for sure."
"Dammit." Gordon ran a hand through his greying hair, "Right, that's – "
" – Nothing we can't handle." Dick Grayson – or Nightwing, as Gordon and Mackenzie knew him – strode out of the gloom towards them, "Batman sends his regards Gordon, he'd be here himself – but he's assigned clean up duty to me."
"Too busy is he?" Gordon snapped – too fast. He shook his head at Nightwing's raised eyebrow, pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Ah, right. Appreciate the sentiment kid, but we're about done here – 'less you want to hunt around the grounds."
"Tempting." Dick forced a chuckle, trying to tide over Gordon's discomfort, "I reckon its better that we put our heads together and work out how this thing whole shambles started."
"So if Dick's got Arkham, where d'you need me?" Tim Drake regarded his silent mentor curiously, "I assume you'll be after Hush."
"You're with me."
"Okay. Fine. So long as this isn't you trying to shield me. I can take care of myself you know."
"That's why we're doing this together. I need you in the wings. Hush is too dangerous for any one-on-one foolishness." Batman stood stock still, despite his precarious position on one of Gotham's many gargoyles. He was just...there. Watching his city. The wind blew – but his stance, his features remained rock like and stoic. "But you have to be ready. Tom is...dangerous."
"You can count on me." Trying to be light-hearted, trying to add some cheeriness to the scene (as was his custom), Tim grinned. Though he was all too aware of the gravity of the situation.
"That said. Don't attack Elliot directly." The tactician had taken over now – no compassion, no compromise, "When we encounter him, follow my lead."
"And when have I ever not done that?" Grinning again, Tim raised an eyebrow. Bruce appreciated the sentiment with a grunt.
Then he turned, and melted into the night. His cape whistled in a swirl of motion.
"Show off."
Victor Zsasz saw the world the right way. He saw the truth, and strove always to share it with others. To release his fellow men and women from their folly. And if, along the way, he indulged himself a little – that was alright – his work was art. Vincent van Gogh had not been appreciated in his own time – it was a sure sign of greatness, that Victor shared this...misfortune.
"The world just isn't ready yet." He sighed. "But they'll get there, with my help."
His breathing was shallow, and as he added another mark to his skin he felt only great pride. Another masterpiece completed. Another zombie liberated. He gazed upon it. A female. Short, dumpy, plain. Low self esteem – comfort eater. She'd squealed like a pig. So he'd cut her like one.
Now she knelt in prayer, between the shipping crates, the rosary she'd carried wrapped between her fingers.
In death, she was more lifelike. Perfect. Zsasz looked at his golden hands. He smiled, and then frowned: a shadow? No murk should fall on the great Zsasz, save that which kept him hidden from –
Rough hands span him to the side, grabbed his head, slammed it into a crate. Cartilage crumpled, bone snapped, skin tore. If it hadn't been his own body suffering Zsasz would have experienced exquisite awe from those noises.
An eye popping slam to the stomach.
"No! You can't – can't touch me! Augh!" He'd screamed – no! He couldn't scream!
"Nononononononono..." But the pounding came again and again and again. Victor balled himself up, but his attacker wouldn't relent.
The Bat! It had to be the Bat! But the Bat had never hit him so hard. Never had Zsasz felt such excruciating agony. Though his eyes were smeared with blood, he opened them – wide, wider.
It wasn't the Bat. It was –
Then Dent kicked him in the head. And Zsasz'z world turned from red, to black.