The mansion of Black Mask was among the most vulgarly ornate buildings of Gotham. Legally speaking, there was no direct evidence tying the criminal tycoon to the property. Anyone who had seen the city's underbelly knew he owned it.
Throwing off the covers, Black Mask groggily sat up. Something had disturbed him from his slumber. Nothing screamed out at him quite yet, but his skin crawled nevertheless. He didn't know what was wrong, but he intended to find out. Slight thumps. An inexplicable oddness in the way that light shone through the window. Being a crime boss for decades gave one a certain knack for picking up on odd details.
"Roman Sionis," something announced itself, concealed in shadows. "You are not an easy man to find."
That was an exaggeration. Compared to the agonizing months or even years-long durations of the Blood Games, this was nothing. By the standards of mortals who lived less than a century? Not so much.
"Batman?"
As Sionis would soon find out, it was not Batman. It was someone much worse.
His chuckle dripped with contempt. "A new freak trying to imitate him. Bold move showing up right in my room. I've tortured and killed people for less."
He rolled off of the side of his king-sized bed. His drowsiness was fading, replaced with murderous adrenaline.
"Get your asses in here!" Sionis called out to his henchmen, storming out of bed. The crime lord wore only a red bath robe. To most Gotham civilians he still would have appeared intimidating. To the thing that had come for him, he seemed a small, impudent animal.
"I think that you underestimate their common sense," the intruder said. "I gave them a chance to leave unharmed if they did not obstruct me. Most threw down their arms. Others did not, and they shall remain broken for a long time."
Somehow, it sounded more ominous to Black Mask than if he had just killed them.
"I am glad that there was no need to use any ammunition," he said with uncharacteristic idleness. "Each bolter round is probably worth more than this manse. Not that I intend any offense."
"Heartless bastard."
"I do in fact have an organ that pumps blood and circulates oxygen through my body. Did you mean that metaphorically? If so, I must say that it is the worst case of the pot calling the kettle black I've ever seen." The calm, neutral voice was filtered through a voice system that made it sound robotic. "Per capita, you may have killed more people, directly or not, than I have over the years."
"I did not get woken up at three in the morning for a lecture from the likes of you," Roman spat. He pulled a pistol from a drawer in his dresser and rested his finger over the trigger.
He swept the gun towards the direction of the voice and then howled in pain. Several of his fingers were suddenly severed. But there had been no sound. No sign except a faint rustle of fabric, a flash of instantaneous movement.
The thing's head tilted like a cat observing a mouse pinned under its claws. "I'm afraid I was a little off with that one," he said with what sounded like genuine remorse. "I can't say that I have the greatest aim, compared to my brethren. But at least I didn't hit your head!"
Not a bullet, or a knife. The projectile was a burnished silver paperweight that once sat on his desk.
'A fucking paperweight?!'
The freak that snuck in had gotten more use from it in a moment than he had in years.
"What the hell do you want from me?" Roman hissed in pain mixed with fury.
He cut to the chase. "I know that a substantial portion of your wealth is stored electronically. I want all of your liquidated assets, at least tied to this estate. I know it isn't everything you have; but it will suffice for my purposes."
"And what do I get in exchange?"
"Your life," he said.
There was no brute force or bellowing of threats. He hadn't grabbed Sionis, or beat him or tortured his men. All he had to do in the end was show up and announce himself. Everything else was all but falling into his hands.
'What the hell is this thing?' But something about it that just wasn't quite right made him want to squirm. It had a sangfroid that the most cold-blooded of psychopaths and politicians lacked. Roman suspected that if it was being tortured its face would be void of emotion.
If it even had a face.
"You're a monster," he spat.
"I know." The frank admission stunned him, despite what had happened. He had expected some sort of moral justification. "Monster or not, I'm leaving here with your money. The only variable is how painful that will be for you."
"Prick," he muttered under his breath.
The transfer took longer than it ordinarily would. Roman was used to his secretary doing the grunt work. He wasn't quite as adept with mundane technology as the average guy might have been.
Like his assailant had guessed, it was by no means everything he had. But even Black Mask had to scowl seeing the numbers in his account depleting. He swore with every fiber of his soul; he would get back at him for this.
At last, it was finished. Concealed in the dark, the thing nodded in satisfaction. A small green light, a quiet beep. Was it a robot or something else?
"Mark my words, freak," he hissed. "Once I'm out of Blackgate, I'm going to make you wish you were never born."
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Sionis. I am neither as generous nor as merciful as Batman is." The thing stepped out of the shadows.
Roman Sionis would gladly have given his entire fortune for Batman to be in the room with him. He knew a monster when he saw one.
It didn't matter how well it was dressed, or how eloquently it spoke. Killers recognized killers. A monster knew another monster when it saw one. As a distant observer, the thing would have appeared ridiculous. The comically oversized pauldrons and the conical helmet. The impossible, unwieldy immensity of its armor. Whoever had designed it had a strange obsession with eagles.
Its black cloak rustled as he came closer, accompanied by a soft mechanical purr. It walked with fluid, inhuman grace. Rays of moonlight made the ostentatious armor glitter with sinister beauty.
The public might be fooled by his brilliant exterior. Even the moral busybodies in the Justice League too. Over the ages humanity became accustomed to admire resplendence and eloquence.
Only a true monster could recognize one of its own; disguised as a hero.
Another step. It was right in front of Black Mask now.
He fought the urge to reel back. A faint, golden ambience surrounded him. Roman didn't know why, but it felt as though his face was struck with light.
Light, but not good light.
This light was cruel and merciless, like the sun scorching a desert animal.
His inflection remained devoid of emotion. He came closer. "I will not grant you the Emperor's Mercy. But you will wish that I had."
Commissioner James W. Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. His already gray hair was beginning to turn white with stress. He set aside the cup of stale, lukewarm coffee. Yet another piece of junk cluttering up his office.
"A Terrible Accident Has Ensued," his long-time partner read the newspaper title. "Black Mask was found grievously wounded at the bottom of a flight of stairs." Harvey Bullock threw down the newspaper in frustration. "Crippled and barely able to say his own name. What a load of crap!"
Not that he wasn't glad it happened. The two still turned gray seeing the crime scene photos. Gordon decided that he would never complain about Batman going too far again.
A thunder bolt had stricken the city's criminal tycoons over the last few months. It came with the largest crime drop in the city's history. It surpassed even the brief plummet in violence upon Batman's first advent.
For the first time, the city's criminal rulers were hunted by one far more ruthless than them.
In ordinary circumstances the Gotham Police Department would rejoice. None of them would mourn if the city's crime families all tripped and broke their necks at once.
"Are you sure it wasn't Batman this time?" Bullock asked.
"I've already spoken with him about it," James said. "Batman is far more inflexible when it comes to dealing with criminals. And he cooperates with the GCPD, not against it," he sighed and rubbed his forehead. This had all of the marks of a new crime lord, probably worse than all the previous ones. "Trust me, he's just as unhappy about this as we are." No matter how irritating he was, he never went that far.
"Their money's vanishing, too. Probably a new vigilante who styles himself some sort of Robin Hood," Renee Montoya said.
'Bruce is rich enough that he doesn't have to pilfer from criminals,' the Commissioner agreed. 'This is a newcomer. One that's in dire need of money'
Ring. Ring. Ring. He resisted the urge to groan in stress. "Not another damn reporter," he sighed, and picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Am I speaking to Commissioner Gordon?"
"You are," he spoke in a professional voice that clashed with his appearance. "Who is this?"
"I am the one responsible for the… shall we say, unfortunate state of Roman Sionis."
"You've gone over the line," Gordon said in an accusatory tone.
"Perhaps that is the case, but we can both agree Sionis went farther."
"If you think that other criminals being worse justifies what you did-"
"Yes, I understand. Slippery slope, good intentions and roads to hell. I've heard it all before. I don't care all that much about justifying myself to you or the defenders of this world. But I am not keen on making unnecessary enemies."
"Are you suggesting an alliance?"
"You are as perceptive as your illustrious career suggests," he said. "Remember the old proverb, commissioner. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Is this as squeaky clean as it could be? No. And be grateful. Where I'm from, these men would be servitorized for their crimes. At the very least, they can enjoy some potential chance at redemption in the prison system. Though we both know they'll be the same drug-pushers when they get out."
"I love your optimism for our criminal population."
"Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment," the Custodian said. "I must confess. I am used to operating as an extra-legal agent. I am not impatient, but I do not believe I have the tolerance for red tape that you do. Besides, I cannot remain skulking in darkness forever. At some point I have to cooperate with the judicial authorities, to some extent."
"You still haven't explained why you called me," Gordon said.
"I am hunting someone, and am at my wit's end," he began. "Do you recall the Metropolis Massacre that occurred a few months ago?"
Gordon couldn't think of a single person who didn't know of it. Every department on the East Coast had seen "Of course I remember it. Why?"
"I am not nearly as adept at subterfuge as my brother, Navradaran," he prefaced. "I understand the basics, nevertheless. I have good reason to suspect that the same people responsible for that Massacre are operating in Gotham."
"Just one caped crusader is enough for me," Gordon began. "I mean, for God's sake there's already three vigilantes running around. And it took years for the public to warm up to them too! Why can't you just have Batman deal with this?"
"You misunderstand my purpose, Commissioner," he said. "Batman's crusade is against the human rot permeating this city. Mine is against a primordial evil that seeks the perversion and enslavement of humanity itself. But this isn't exactly something to be casually discussed over a phone call."
"Crusade or not, do you have any idea the amount of trouble you've stirred? I've got the entire city council on my back telling me to bring you in! And for what? To masquerade as a hero while pilfering millions in blood money."
"Unlike you, I need not worry about public perception. For all intents and purposes, I am a ghost. If you wish to use me as a scapegoat, pin all of the ills of Gotham on me, feel free. You can be the Christ to my Baphomet, so to speak. It makes no difference to me either way."
Gordon stopped. He realized a dozen other detectives were behind him, listening in.
"A personal meeting can be arranged, if you see fit. But it will be a place of my choosing. For now, Commissioner, I bid you farewell.. I recommend you get some rest. You're one bad day from a stroke. And a diet of caffeine and doughnuts will send you to an early grave."
The line was cut off. Montoya had a small smile on her face as Bullock cursed. "He did it from a pay phone. We can try and triangulate his location, but he's probably already gone by now."
Hours later, with the precinct all-but deserted, he pulled up in his driveway.
A surge of energy poured through him. His aging heart pounded with the strain of adrenaline. On the welcome mat of his porch lay an envelope with his name on it. He frowned, bending down with a throb of back pain to pick it up.
A distant "hey dad," from his daughter went over his head. He mumbled something back to her as he entered the kitchen. His fingers tore it open and his eyes narrowed. He didn't need the words in front of his eyes to know who it was from. He unfolded the card tucked within as he scowled.
The letter was written in an exquisite, Gothic font. He knew immediately who it was.
"You are an honorable man, Commissioner Gordon," he read aloud. "You would have made a good Arbitor. What the hell's an Arbitor?"
"Some kind of police officer where he's from, maybe?" Barbara suggested. Her face flashed with concern, before her father continued.
"If you wish to extend our negotiations, come to Joe's Tavern, at midnight sharp. Do not bring any escorts. You will not need them, and they will not be able to apprehend me."
His office was long-since silent and the building all-but vacant. He sighed. "I'm never going to complain about you vanishing into thin air again Bruce."
"Dad, are you sure about doing this?" Barbara asked with a worried look. She was the GCPD's crime data analyst. His daughter had seen the gory, borderline massacres firsthand. She didn't want her father walking straight into his own murder.
"If I wasn't willing to put myself in danger for the people of Gotham, could I really call myself Commissioner?"
"Technically people have been Commissioners in the past without ever doing that."
"It was a rhetorical question," he sighed. "I just started getting along with Batman. Now I have to deal with someone even worse?"
The Batcave reeked of moldy air and guano. An oily, mineral-heavy dew clogged its interior.
For the three who had spent most of their lives there, it smelled like home.
"So far," Batman prefaced, "we don't have a lot to go off of."
When the mask was on, he was Batman. When it was off, he was Batman. With his physical face revealed, he wore the mask of Bruce Wayne.
"One thing I'll say," Batgirl piped up. "I'm never complaining about how hard you go in training sessions again."
Months had gone by without any sign of Valerian. Batman had begun to suspect he had either died or given up on returning to his universe. Or, barring that, somehow assimilated into civilian life. How he could manage that when he was taller than Bane souped up on Venom escaped him. The Caped Crusader had wagered the first had occurred. He had faced one of those things Supergirl had helped him defeat, but without help.
All this, until the recent crime drop in Gotham.
It was a double-edged sword. Much of the stress had been taken off the Batfamily's shoulders. For as long as they could remember, they labored beneath an unmanageable load. No matter their dedication or skill, three people couldn't police a city of millions. They did their best to assist the GCPD. A band-aid didn't do much to help an already-gangrenous wound.
On the other hand, he was far too brutal for Batman's liking. Having another hero on his home turf already strained his hospitality. Them being borderline homicidal crossed the line. So far, however, the Batfamily could do nothing but catalog his violent sprees. Doing so always brought a feeling of powerlessness, for a time.
The Batcomputer flashed as it displayed images of unsightly gore. The injuries were dealt with the precision of a scalpel.
If that scalpel was ten feet tall and almost murderous.
"He kind of seems like a dick."
"Irony, let me introduce you to Dick," Barbara said mockingly, "Dick, this is Irony."
"Shut up," he muttered petulantly, but decided not to further respond to her jibe. "So what exactly is he? Some kind of super-soldier?"
Batman had edited out the footage of the beast Valerian and Supergirl had fought. Its image pulsed with an awful wrongness.
He wasn't a stranger to the supernatural, yet it still made his skin crawl. In Metropolis, hundreds of civilians had to be institutionalized and others imprisoned. Some were violent to the point that they simply had to be euthanized. Batman didn't personally blame the golden giant for what had happened. He still felt a sense of righteous anger at what had happened. And besides supervillains and street criminals, there was no one to direct the anger towards besides Valerian.
"Not a soldier in the modern sense of the word," Batman said.
"His weapons are custom made. It's beyond anything we're able to make at the moment." The engineer in him felt frustration that he hadn't held onto it longer. His own projects at WayneTech didn't even begin to approach its sophistication.
"I guess in the far future, we'll be fighting with even bigger and pointier sticks!" Robin exclaimed.
"That's not exactly doing it justice," Batman said. He remembered the exquisite detail and finery on the weapons. He felt distaste for the man turning Gotham upside down, but he could still admire good craftsmanship. Whoever had made the spear, sword and knife were masters of their respective fields.
The ammunition, though, had been surprisingly primitive. Some kind of explosive hundred-caliber bullet. It was sure to kill most of what it hit. It explained why he had yet to fire it. The level of dedication for the ammo seemed wasteful to Batman, despite its beauty.
All this, though, and they didn't have the man himself. Or his armor.
At the end of the day, Batman hadn't learned much at all. He hoped this would come in handy at some point in the future.
"Kara told me that he gave a warning about the civilian population," Barbara mentioned. "The real threat came from within, or something like that. I'm guessing he's trying to hunt whatever attacked Metropolis."
Batman made a mental note. "That's more or less what he told us as well," he said. He punched a button on the Batcomputer's keyboard. An image of the golden giant appeared on the screen, blotting out the photos.
Depending on the way things went, he could be the Justice League's newest member. Or, the newest addition to the Caped Crusader's Rogues Gallery.
"I don't think that Jim is in danger here, though he should be cautious," Batman said. "We may have been wrong to let him leave the Watchtower, but for now, only time will tell. Soon we'll see just what he's capable of."
He would make sure that Valerian knew one thing soon. Gotham was his city to protect, and his alone.
The city of Gotham was almost two hundred years old. Even at the city's inception, forgotten layers had piled up under its surface. Labyrinths and apocalypse shelters built by wealthy families. Mayors and corporate tycoons with their dark secrets still buried there. And the city's first sewer system, long since defunct.
Hundreds of meters under the hustle and bustle of Gotham strode the murderer of Black Mask's empire.
His base could be found only through a maddening labyrinth of dilapidated sewer systems. No human for over a century had descended so deep without going mad or perishing. Skeletons both human and not littered the long and winding path that he took. As far as Valerian knew, he was the only soul present.
He stopped at a pseudo-wall and drew his Misericordia. His eye caught the tiniest of slits in the sewer passage. He inserted the knife and twisted it. The notch of applied force triggered an old, makeshift pressure plate system. The Shield-Captain pressed gently, the door sliding open just enough for him to enter.
It shut some seconds later. The join in the wall remained as seamless as it had been when he first entered.
Inside was a spider's nest of jury-rigged surveillance systems and generators. At the center of the web, an old computer monitor that became obsolete a half-century ago. An eccentric mixture of ingenuity, resilience, and conservative Imperial stagnancy. Over three-quarters of all his equipment was obsolete and taken from junkyards.
The remaining were the precious bits and pieces pilfered from wealthy crime syndicates. Nanotechnology, experimental energy weapons, and chemical biohazards. Some of the things he possessed would put a man in federal prison for decades, if not life.
He strode past a keyboard that looked more at home on a typewriter than a computer. It was the only one he could find that would fit his enormous fingers. He approached a workbench, and systematically removed his power armor.
He was no Techmarine or Terran artificer. Still, being the Emperor's finest, the Ten Thousand were supposed to be polymaths. Proficiency, if not mastery, in as many fields as possible was both expected and necessary. Valerian could not claim to be a master metallurgist, but he could maintain his armor.
It was growing difficult, however. Knowledge of his battleplate's workings didn't avail much if he lacked the material to repair it. While his equipment was built to last centuries, millennia even, it still required maintenance.
He would have to find some way to manufacture replacement auramite. His displacer field allowed him access to many places he would not have otherwise. The little device might have been the most precious thing in his arsenal. Without it, much of his But it too, would not last forever.
'How far I have fallen,' he thought with some amusement. Some months ago, he could appear wherever he wished and marshal the power of an empire. Now, he made do with jury rigged equipment in the sewers of a primitive city. And yet, his current ordeal had yet to be as intense as some of the Blood Games he had endured.
Apart from his duel with the Bloodthirster. Though that was far from ordinary compared to what was released in the Imperial Palace. He was still cleaning off the filth of Gotham's gutters as he disrobed.
Ages ago, in the urban misery of Imperial Terra, Valerian had first met mortals on their own turf. Before that pivotal moment, he held them in naught but contempt. Their weakness was responsible for the Imperium's decline from its former glory.
It was their very thoughts that fuelled the furnace of the Warp itself.
The first one he had ever spoken to was a pilgrim. Centuries prior, a pious citizen decided they would set ground on Terra. Scores of generations had preceded her ever touching down upon its soil. Her throat had been parched and her stomach empty. She was so close, yet so far from treading upon the grounds of the Imperial Palace.
Something was awakened deep within him at the sight. Along with Navradaran, he had been veiled in a black, monastic cowl, seen by none.
He had not been able to put into words what he saw in her eyes.
The childlike joy and wonder.
From then on he could not bring himself to hate them.
Their hope and their despair, their ambition and their lethargy. They were nothing and yet they were everything; so much less than he yet so much more. Their ancestors and their qualities had first conquered the stars, not his own. They once had repulsed him, but they now intrigued him and always would.
They were defenseless without him, but he was purposeless without them.
No matter where he fought, in one plane of reality or another, it would be for them.
His weaponry laid on soft red velvet, shining from his repairs. Next to it was his armor, fresh and gleaming. He was used to having to clean off scratches, scorch marks, ash and blood, both Imperial and not. This recent incursion had been an exception. Not a single bullet, laser or scuff mark had defaced his equipment.
This would not always be the case. His wargear would break down. He was not in the Imperial Palace. He was in a decaying spider's lair of technology that had become obsolete decades ago. It was here deep beneath Gotham's slums, that the Shield-Captain fought a one-man war.
According to some of Gotham's news stations, he was winning.
He knew better. His equipment showed signs of wear and tear as the months dragged on.
He worried Gnosis' machine-spirit would balk at his inferior craftsmanship and ministry. He hoped the ancient and venerable weapon would sympathize with his circumstances. If not, it had endured worse in the past. Like himself, it was not a thing of pride and ego. Gnosis was a weapon of humble service and duty, taking on whatever came its way.
Next to the pile of makeshift shells lay examples of the few hobbies he permitted himself. A six-columned Bible in Hebrew and Greek, long-forgotten Latin poets and statesmen. An antique record player. He set it to play the symphonies of great composers long lost to Imperial history. It was seldom that he got to enjoy the little treasures that he pilfered.
For now, he scurried in the shadows like the rats that he hunted.
"Like rats," he murmured. He had to think like a rat, not like a Custodian. He had to put himself into their shoes. They had no great champions to marshal their forces. No armies to subjugate the planet's cities. No mortal bullet-fodder to drown him beneath. It could take a month, a year, a decade or century for them to surface.
The lack of a direct target irritated him. For once, he wished that senseless violence would solve the problems plaguing him. For a moment, distantly, he understood the policies of the Imperium at large. It would be so very simple if his blade and bolter solved all of his problems. But he knew, deep down, that it would only get him killed. He did not have the power to overcome a world of strange aliens, witches and mutants. He doubted he could even defeat Supergirl. And compared to her apparent foster cousin, she was raw and underpowered.
He would negotiate and compromise, if he had to. Consort with the alien and the witch. The mental image would give Imperial mono-dominants an aneurysm. It gave him no great pleasure or pain to do so. It was merely duty.
Whether a hundred days passed, or a hundred years, he would find them.
The Great Enemy of humanity would be hunted down, and he would grant them the mercy of oblivion.
AN: In chapter 2 I called Kara an "Argonian" when it should be "Argoan". Should be fixed by now. Also, thanks to the reviewer The Disquieting One for pointing out another incomplete text that I missed.