The flicker of computer screens cast a light on their faces, a group of six hunkered over keyboards as fingers mash buttons and try to push their way into the annals of Anarchic history. There was a feeling of distorted glee in the room, they were finally doing something worthwhile, something that would show the world, the American Government even, that the voice of the people could not be ignored anymore.

It was ecstasy upon high.

It was terrorist delusion bordering upon religious zealotry as they worship their god of stolen information upon the glowing screens in front of them. They were insane with the thrill.

And soon everyone would feel their madness.

-
Lowering himself down into a small well-ventilated server room his eyes scan the darkness with the aid of his tiny flashlight. Held in his tight grasp as he searches the racks of mounted computers for labels. They have them, but not in a normal sense. No whoever ran this building's tech services was a narcissistic personality who wanted to prove their usefulness and superiority to those that weren't familiar with his field by labeling them in binary code written in glittery green ink on the mounts.

Finding the one he was looking for he once again places the light between his teeth so that he can pull out a long, cell phone-like object. Pushing down on a rubber indention in the middle of it a small plasma screen extends and rotates up from the side to hover over the device held in his hand. The indentation springs up from the base to form a toggle stick, the screen is cast in the static of no-signal-snow.

But from the static stands out a series of several pulsing circles, the strongest of the circles is the one he taps with his pointer finger. Securing a lock on the signal for the wireless broadcast to the surveillance server in front of him. His eyes focus as he forces his teeth to click off the flashlight between them so he can clearly see and guides his right thumb along the toggle stick to capture a pulsing green line.

Capturing the signal's highest point, a sudden rush of encrypted code comes to greet him and he uses the fingers on his left hand to start typing through it, introducing his Trojan Horse program into the wireless feed and into the server's mainframe software. A blinking password log box pops up on the small plasma screen and he thumbs a small square that introduces the main component of the Trojan to randomize letters and numbers until they quickly find the password, "3n1gm4 C0d3".

With a sharp chuckle, he starts scrolling through the feeds until he spots the one above the elevator of the floor that Mackenzie Crowne resided in. Tapping it he rests back on his heels and views the video play, his breath a hushed gush of breeze that fogs the heated plasma read out. He spots them. A group of six. Five UnSubs wearing blue medical gowns with doll masks affixed to their heads, and one man; obviously the leader; clad in a white lab coat and a bloodied leather apron. His identifying feature, a large pink pig mask adorning his head and the red tool box clutched tightly in his left hand.

The feed flickers, cutting out and the Detective's eyes flick around to the window facing the hall to see the lights outside of the server room flicker with the feed. Something was happening. Hitting he download button next to the video he closes the device and returns it to its place on his belt before he slips out into the hallway. The management staff was there, chattering away about what had happened, having been called when Crowne was found dead in her apartment.

They freeze upon spotting the towering man in the hallway. No one got this close to him that didn't end up in jail or the hospital, "Are you okay?"

His question falls on deaf ears as a sudden rolling rumble of power runs through the air before the lights flicker off completely. Leaving them enveloped by shadows. His goggles come out once more, turning the wheels around the lenses the blue flare of light washes the room out in a much easier to see fashion. Heat signatures pick up in a bright orange, with a small window over their heads tracking their heart rate as it fluctuates their temperatures.

He moves out into the main office, crouched down as he looks outside with the rest of them to see Gotham fall into darkness. One building after another, one quadrant after another, like domino's falling in line. Standing he moves with confidence to the fire exit and slips outside to look up into the sky as the only lights visible quickly become the search lights of police helicopters and blimps dotting the skyline. The usual blood red light-polluted night skies of Gotham fall to a dark blue, no stars visible, but the light of Gotham falls dead with a humming wheeze.

He was right, the first hour was their one concession. To try to solve the puzzle before resources were steadily taken away from them. He had counted for this. He hadn't mentioned it because he didn't want Gordon to fly into a panic, because when darkness like this falls in Gotham chaos ensues.

But then with a roar, the power comes back, in a wave across the city and he smirks grimly. His anti-terrorism software was at work, automated and battling against whoever was trying to take down the power grid. That bought them some time. Not much. But enough to get their act together. And then a voice, small, but husky sounds from behind him and he turns his head to look at its owner from over his shoulder, "The phone lines are dead, Ba-Batman... there's no dial tone."

Something had to give. Something always had to give.
-

"What the fuck is all of this? There's a backtrace in pursuit of our IP! Automated security software?! Gotham can't afford this, even if they wanted to, they couldn't!" The harried voice of the hunched over man sounds into the previously silent room. Some of its owner's compatriots were grumbling and cursing right along with him. They were running into problems left, right and center when it came to shutting down Gotham's Public Works.

"The phone lines are dead. I think the software is too busy with water and power to take care of the phone lines." The screens seize for a moment, freeze up causing sudden yells and curses pierce the air before a booming, obviously augmented voice yells out over them.

"Patience! I've counted for this, it's the Batman. Trying to protect his beloved city from the very people he seeks to oppress, my brothers and sisters!" Gloved hands fly up into the air, the owner of the augmented voice's face was hidden from them by the shadow of his red hoodie. Not far behind him the wheelbarrow full of stolen goods sits untouched, but soon to be rifled through, "He won't be able to stop us. One man's stand against us is like one man's stand against the rising morning tide. He will fall beneath us as we trample over the bodies of our oppressors!"

Silence fills the air as the voice quietly dies down. Then applause breaks out, wild, disturbed cheers fill the air as he turns to drift off into the shadows to sort through the contents of the wheelbarrow. His hands, clad in blue latex gloves dig and sort through items and stop as light glints off of the item that has stopped his mad search.

A trophy from a kill he didn't commit. But a trophy to mark the start of his war on Gotham's decadence. He lifts it from the wheelbarrow and walks into a long shaft of light from a long boarded up window to inspect the object he holds so reverentially. An award won by the father of the girl he had ordered dead, a golden face, hollow, with empty eyes looking out into nothing, attached to a block of black wood with a small plaque he didn't care enough about to read.

The golden leaf of the face shines brightly in the light, reflects off in hints of power and austere. It's the perfect image. The perfect image for him to define himself and his movement. In a quick and greedy move, he tears the face from its heavy oak stand with relative ease and turns it around. The inside of the back is a matte black over simple light weight metals. His eyes close and he pushes it flush against his face.

It fits. Almost perfectly to his features. Fits and hugs on them until he tries to speak and it falls from his face and back into his shaky hands. He'd fix that issue. It wouldn't take much. A drill, a few cheap leather straps, and it would be the perfect face for his war.

The perfect face for Anarky.