Given the state of things in the city, it could be forgiven that the GCPD was not quick to act when a murder was reported. Compared to Chicago, their response was reasonable.

That this report was coming from Arkham had the Commissioner scrambling, and it was the Lieutenant herself who was responding to the call. The scene itself was bloody, but Sarah had seen much worse.

The victim was where the surprise was. It seemed like someone really had it out for Quincy Sharp. He was slumped back in a rotating, wheeled chair that was located behind a large, wooden desk. His arms dangled on either side of the chair's armrests and Sharp's head was slumped forward. An enormous stain of blood stretched down the front of his suit and flowed off the corpse to the carpeted floor below, forming a rather large puddle.

It didn't take a genius to figure out where the wound was. Still, confirmation of the slash to the elder man's neck was all she needed to know about the cause of death. Following the trail of blood from there, she could see the splatter on the desk, stretching out behind the far edge of the piece of furniture and probably getting the carpeting on the far end of the office.

Other than that, the place was untouched. There was no sign of anyone rifling through the desk or the cabinets, or even Sharp's clothes. There were no signs of forced entry either, for whatever that was worth. Judging by the lack of defensive wounds, the murderer had gotten the jump on the administrator, most likely had their weapon of choice against Sharp's neck before the man had realized what was going on.

So quick, efficient. Someone knew what they were doing. That immediately ruled out a disgruntled employee in her mind. Jim had background checks on all Arkham employees performed when Sharp was arranging for the inflow of convicts into the asylum. All had come back clean, save for the occasional speeding ticket. Now the question was who had motive? Who wanted Sharp dead? Based on his past, as well as what knowledge she had on him, the Lieutenant figured that there was a long list of people who would love nothing more than to see this man six feet under. It could be criminals in the prison he had been warden of prior to his transfer to Arkham. A political rival was another suspect. Hell, Warden Zorbatos over at Blackgate was a category all of her own.

Yet, Gordon had a feeling it wasn't the embattled warden. Zorbatos had enough problems as it was. Why risk bringing another firestorm on her head? That would leave the other two theories that had already come to mind. She could easily see a convict getting their hands on a key to Sharp's office from a guard, overpowering them, and then quickly going after Sharp. And Lord knew how many rivals Sharp had made for himself since arriving in Gotham.

However, she had also come up with a fourth theory.

See, a mask had been left on Sharp's desk and in plain sight. The killer had wanted it found.

Someone was trying to put the blame on the Court of Owls.

Thanks to efforts after that horrible night when so many officials and persons of prominence in the city had been targeted for assassination, someone had been doing a good job bringing anyone and everyone involved with it to justice. Each and every time a court member was brought in, one of the blank, white owl masks was admitted into evidence alongside the man or woman to the holding cells.

And now one of those masks was here in Arkham Asylum.

Let's say, for the sake of argument, that not all members of the Court of Owls were apprehended, that there were still a few lurking about, why would they want someone like Sharp dead? According to the Commissioner, Sharp was on his way out, Mayor Hady doing his damnedest at damage control, as well as throwing Sharp under the bus. He was leaving, so why kill him now?

That was even taking into account that the Court had any financial resources left that weren't being used to fund their typical extravagant lifestyles.

About the only thing Sarah could up up with that was reasonable was that the Court was upset with Sharp and wanted to get rid of him. Of course, that made more sense if they were still hiding in the shadows, pulling at the heartstrings of Gotham still. Maybe this was more like they were trying to show the world they were still out there, still watching, still plotting.

The Lieutenant sighed. The only thing that most would agree with was that this was the last thing any of them needed. First Blackgate, then Pamela Isley, the one-two combo of Bane and the Arkham escapees, and now the apparent return of the Court of Owls.

"Who else wants to make this worse?" Sarah grumbled as she turned away from the scene. There was a report Jim was expecting on this, and it was best to get it over with.

The van slowed to a stop, the brakes squealing as they provided friction to the tires. In the back of the van, several men in black combat fatigues did last minute checks of their equipment. Machine guns were loaded and extra magazines shoved into holsters on bulletproof vests. Each man had a couple grenades attached to the vests as well. Canisters of smoke grenades dangled from loops on their belts. A couple even had holsters for their knives in plain sight, either attached to their vest, or to the belts at their waist.

For Juan, this was just another stop in their entrenched battle for Gotham. The main stumbling blocks had been removed, including the last vestiges of organized crime. He couldn't help but snort at that. He came from lands in firm control of the cartels and there was no way they would allow themselves to be beaten into such a sorry state as these wannabe gangsters.

"Lock and load," someone from the front of the van ordered. "It's go time."

As it so happened, Juan was sitting at the back, so this allowed him to grab hold of the door handle and turn it, opening the backdoor of the van. Shoving it open, he jumped out, his feet landing on the pavement. Assault rifle pointed up with its butt pressed into his shoulder, Juan made a beeline for the building the van was parked in front of.

Though they had crushed the main resistance of the Italian Mob a couple nights ago, there were still small pockets of the crime family still fighting. This building was one such place. Thanks to their intel from Bird, they would be in and out easily, dispatching these bastardos. Only a handful of Italians were holed up in here, definitely on the upper floor, but possibly the ground floor as well. Let it be said that anyone that stood up to Bane did not live very long.

Rushing up to the door, Juan positioned himself next to it, his side pressed into the building's face. Pedro copied him as he took the position on the opposite side of the door. The others began to line up behind them, ready for breach.

That's when Juan moved in front of the door and reared back, kicking the door with his foot. The sorry excuse for a door was kicked in, swinging widely. Immediately, he charged in, Pedro following in after him. Between the two of them, they checked opposite corners of the room, even as they moved further in, the rest of their team filing in after them.

However, by the time Juan reached the center of the room, he came to a stop. While the room was dark, the ambient light from the outside was flooding inside through the open doorway. Because of this, Juan was starting to notice the place was a wreck.

Lying on the floor, he saw the bodies of several men, all of whom were still. Blood was pooling around them, along with spatters on the walls. Slowly, the Hispanic man knelt down and reached a hand out. He dipped his fingertips into the blood and felt how warm it was. "Blood's warm," he reported gruffly. "This just happened minutes ago."

"Someone beat us to the job," someone else grumbled. "What a waste of time. What a—"

That's when the light entering the building began to disappear, the door to the room swinging shut. "Get out lights!" someone demanded, and Juan shot a hand to his belt. Grabbing hold of a glow stick, he cracked it, which allowed a green light to light up the room. Several other glow sticks lit up as well.

That's when he saw them. It was as if they had appeared out of thin air. Mingled between the mercenaries were perhaps four, maybe five men in head-to-toe bodysuits. Goggles were positioned where their eyes were supposed to be and they each held swords in their hands.

Swords that were still dripping with blood.

"They're right here!" someone exclaimed, causing all of Bane's men to train their guns on the...whatever they were, freaking ninjas maybe. However, Pedro and one other weren't so luck as the ninjas immediately went into action, flashes of steel cutting through the air and biting into flesh. Juan watched as a man had his arm sliced off, causing him to scream as blood sprayed out of his newly-made stump. Pedro had a sword stabbed right into his chest, the end of the blade sliding through his body and out of his back. Pedro gagged before the sword was yanked out of him, the man falling to his knees, only for the sword to whip around in the air before slashing downwards and cutting his head right off of his shoulders.

"Hijo de puta!" someone roared and that's when the gunfire erupted. The room lit up with the light created by the firing bullets.

However, that created a strobe effect, causing the room to flash over and over with light. Because of this, Juan watched even as he emptied his magazine the ninjas moving throughout the room in bursts. One moment they were standing, the next they were a few feet to a side, the next one had a ninja and his sword decapitating another mercenary while another was chopping a gun in half. Another moment and Juan saw a comrade have his legs be sliced off, one of the ninja's crouched lowly with his sword completing its swing, currently being held out to one side.

It occurred right then to Juan just what was happening. This was an ambush and they had walked right into it. Estupido! Finishing his clip, Juan quickly pulled it out, reaching for another magazine.

Unfortunately, that's when one of the ninjas turned their attention to him. Before he could finish his reload, the man was upon him, swinging his sword from above his head downward. Yelping, Juan jumped backwards to avoid the attack, feeling the breeze the sword strike made as it passed right in front of him.

The ninja didn't seem the least bit perturbed by this. Quickly, he raised his sword back up, but held it to one side. Again, Juan jerked backwards as his opponent swung his blade from one side to the other. However, he wasn't as fortunate as he felt the edge of the sword cut into his side, slicing right through the kevlar he wore. Pain ripped into his body, causing him to cry out as he stumbled backwards, his back coming to hit against the far wall. Instinctively, he dropped a hand to a side, feeling blood leaking out of a cut that started at the side of his hip and ended an inch or two away from his belly button.

That had been a mistake. As he had examined himself, the ninja had brought his sword up, holding the handle with both hands at shoulder height, the tip pointed right at him. Behind the ninja, Juan could see the last few men of his team being cut down, not a single one of them having successfully shot one of the masked men.

And then the ninja in front of him drove his sword forward, impaling Juan in the face.

It was incredibly easy to keep yourself hidden in another person's home without them learning of your presence. The Phantasm had staked out David Franco's condo, secreting itself inside and waiting for its opportunity to strike. Unfortunately, Franco's wife and children had been there as well, thus increasing the difficulty in remaining hidden.

But it had been successful. The children were leaving for the night, spending it with friends. The wife had decided last minute to have a girls' night out and Franco was choosing to stay in, slouched on the living room couch with the plasma television on, a show from one of the movie channels playing on screen.

The wife had taken a moment to ask something from her husband, the man grunting and answering half-heartedly. The long awaited opportunity to strike was at hand. However, it was sometimes best to wait, allow some time to pass. Ordinary people made mistakes, such as forgetting car keys, or purses, or wallets. Such mistakes shrunk windows of opportunity as well as the possible time of death. It was in no hurry and did not wish to be interrupted.

So it waited, allowing for one program to become another, Franco only getting up once to head for the kitchen and indulge in a beer.

Then the Phantasm released its misty smoke, allowing it to fill a corner of the living room and then waited as it spread out. Eventually, Franco noticed something was amiss. His head turned away from the television and honed in on the smoke. There was a delay in reaction, but when the targeted man did, it was within expectations. A swear and now he was standing up, putting some distance between himself and the smoke.

And now was the time.

"David Franco."

"What the!" Franco's attention snapped away from the smoke and settled on the emerging form of the masked killer.

"Your angel of death awaits."

Franco's eyes were bulging in his sockets, not a pleasant sight due to the thinness of his head and highness of his cheekbones. "You! What are you..? Keep away from me!" The panicked man was backing away, a hand held out behind him and reaching for a side table.

Predictable. In response, the Phantasm lunged forth, leaping over the couch, with the scythe-like blade that was its right hand swinging out from beneath its cloak-like cape. Franco yelped and threw himself to a side as the blade plunged down and into the side table, fake wood splintering as the table broke into pieces.

Ripping the blade away, the ruined piece of furniture fell to the floor where a gun tumbled out of it. Obviously, Franco had hidden the gun there and had been attempting to retrieve it. Again, so predictable. Stepping over the weapon, the Phantasm continued its pursuit, chasing the fleeing man into a hallway. Franco hadn't gone very far and it was easy enough to catch up with him next to an open doorway. Grabbing Franco, the masked killer shoved its prey into the small room, the terrified man running into the tiled wall of a bathroom.

As Franco as pushing himself from the wall, the Phantasm grabbed him from behind and spun him around, However, Franco was not yet out of fighting spirit. With a cry, the cornered man swung a fist into the hooded killer's mask and instantly regretted it telling by his cry of pain. For his effort, the Phantasm backhanded the man with its fist, Franco stumbling to a side and falling into the bathtub, ripping the shower curtain down with him. Trying to stop his fall, Franco accidentally grabbed and twisted the shower knobs, turning on the water.

Taking a step back, it reached out and took hold of a hair dryer, turning it on as the hair dryer began to blow hot air. It was loud and annoying and the drone echoed off of the bathroom walls, but the Phantasm was able to endure it. It needed a source for electricity and this was the most easily accessible source. Silently, it waited for Franco to spot the device and freeze up.

Franco swallowed audibly. "W-what do y-y-you want?"

"I have questions for you, Mr. Franco." The soulless eyes of the murderer bored into its prey.

"...uh…" Too scared to say anything. So be it.

"Where is Hugo Strange?"

A look of confusion fell over Franco's face. "Strange? Why do you want to know about him?"

The Phantasm held the hair dryer closer to the drenched man.

"Okay, okay, okay! Just keep that thing away from me!" Franco yelped.

"Where is Hugo Strange?" the Phantasm demanded again.

"I don't know where he is," Franco said quickly, his speech rapid. "I just remember him showing up a few weeks ago and then everything's a blank. I think he might've put me into a trance, or something. He's been known to do that."

"Why would he see you?"

"I don't know. Safehouse, maybe? Sionis wanted a bunch of them back in the day. Gave a few members the locations written on pieces of paper that we were only suppose to give out in an emergency," Franco explained. "We weren't allowed to look at them so that we couldn't tell anyone where they were. We were just supposed to give them out if we had to. If the cops came for us, we had orders to burn them. That way if anyone got nabbed, no one would be able to say where one was. I bet Strange wanted the address I had."

It seemed like Crane's lead was worth the visit, yet at the same time almost a dead end. A location didn't appear to be obtainable. While some would scoff or disbelieve such a claim like Franco's, the Phantasm knew who Sionis was and what he was capable of demanding. Sionis was a paranoid man and the lengths to which he had gone to ensure his safety were great indeed. That he was still out there, in hiding, who knew when he would show up again and wanting a show of loyalty? Even now, he inspired fear in his underlings.

However, it paid off to be thorough.

"What was the address?"

"I told you, I don't know! I never looked at it! I did what I was told to do. The only time I ever gave it out was years ago, when I met that guy, the one who made that poison that makes you afraid!" Franco exclaimed.

"And did you receive another address after giving that one out?" the Phantasm pressed.

Franco paused. "Y...yes."

"Did you not look at it once after Operation Dread?"

It was barely there, but Franco hesitated. He had.

"Where?"

"I didn't look at it again, and that was years ago!" Franco protested. "I just remember that it's somewhere in the south side of Gotham. Close to the industrial sector. The street begins with a P. That's all I remember!"

Better.

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Franco," the Phantasm spoke, allowing its cloud of smoke to obscure it from sight. It now had a smaller area to investigate, which meant it was so much closer to its true prey now.

Before it forgot, there was still the matter of Franco and his association with the False Face Society. So far, all it had encountered were dead and Franco was still alive. Without a second thought, it tossed the hair dryer into the spewing water.

It also ignored Franco's screams and the sounds of electrocution.

"Extraordinary," Strange remarked, feeling an unfamiliar sensation in his body. Was this what it meant to be breathless? Speechless? In awe?

He had played it safe, watched and observed every change, every reaction, and every response his test subject had given while he had, ahem, tested his brainchild. It was marvelous. Truly. And to think it was his superior mind that had created...this.

His lips curved into a malicious smirk.

Oh yes. Oh yes… Finally, his genius was reaping such a promising fruit. He had chosen his proverbial guinea pig well. Still alive, still sedated, and still imprisoned under his chemical-based control. There was little need for physical restraints as the compounds kept Little Mario mentally sedated. The Italian was proving himself phenomenally as a true inheritor of his remarkable name.

But he digressed. While Strange could pat himself on the back for his achievement, he was not so blinded by pride to think that his work was finish. Nay, far from it. Appearance-wise, Mario's transformation was a wonder to behold. That was just it, appearance-wise. Sure, Strange had been testing the transformed man as extensively as he could, given the circumstances and location they were in.

It only gave an idea as to what his serum was capable of. The true scope of the formula's promise continued to remain a mystery.

It was fortunate that Strange knew how to go about finding that precious information. It wouldn't be the first time he had used Gotham as a testing ground for his projects. The city was a place that could throw multiple variables at you, ones never before conceived. When it came to experimentation, it was these variables that determined the outcome, however they should come to be. What better place than this city to really show off what his creation was capable of?

"You have been performing well, Little Mario," Strange praised as he stalked around the hulking figure that was the result of his genius, circling around him as he admired his work. Muscles bulged from every visible area along with an excessive amount of hair growing around the lower arms, lower legs, and chest. There were even the trademark steroid hairs on Mario's enlarged shoulders.

What had once been a smooth, almost suave Italian face was now contorted in the cheeks and a pronounced brow. This was more of a face for a brute than a self-proclaimed man of sophistication, a neanderthal than a scion of organized crime. Perhaps that aspect of his formula needed to be refined a bit, but nonetheless, Strange was content with the metamorphosis for now.

Only a shredded piece of pants contained Mario's modesty, not that Mario was concerned with such a thing anymore. And if Mario was unconcerned by his state of dress then why should he?

"However, I wish to see all you are capable of," the brilliant shrink continued coming to stop in front of his creation, looking up into empty eyes devoid of any sign of intelligence. The drugs he had in the man's system were still strong, making him more than susceptible to Strange's "suggestions."

To emphasized this, there was not even a grunt from that swollen neck. Hm, there was even a little drool leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Leaning forward, almost in a confidential manner, Strange explained, "I want you to go out into the city. I want you to go into a rage. Show me your new strength. Show me that you are not a man to be messed with. Prove to everyone why no one disrespects a Falcone.

"And if anyone tries to stop you, kill them."

There was a groan, low and rumbling, but nothing else from Mario. It seemed his words had finally touched upon some form of intelligence within Mario's sedated mind. Very good.

"Go on now," Strange cajoled, stepping away and strolling towards the small hallway that led to the front door. Opening it, he stood aside, waiting for the massive hulk to lumber towards and then pass by him into the hallway. It would take a little time for the drugs to wear off, but by then the brute should be far enough away that the former psychiatrist would be more than safe.

Shutting the door behind Mario, Strange returned to the living room of this safehouse with an eagerness in his step. Like when he had released the colony of Man-Bats all those years ago, it was now time for him to wait and watch. See how his latest creation would fare.

After all, he had a greater design in mind. Soon all those other mortals would realize it. In the meantime, he would return to another aspect of it, make sure that it was worthy of his high standards.

He would be ready when it was his time to take center stage.

To Guest: And definitely bad news for Gotham. They don't need anymore people causing trouble