Once the blood starts flowing, it never stops.
The neon signs of the night flickered out one by one, and the storefronts of the day shuttered their windows.
Shattered glass was nailed shut with rough wooden boards; graffiti crawled over once-glamorous advertisements, replaced by gang symbols and slogans of rage.
Black Mask wasn't just hitting Falcone, Maroni, or Thorne. He was launching indiscriminate strikes and forced recruitments across every gang territory he could reach.
Gunmen in uniform skull masks swept through the streets in modified vehicles like a plague.
Those who refused to cooperate faced the most brutal retaliation—charred corpses hanging from lampposts or dismembered remains stuffed into dumpsters became Black Mask's new calling cards.
"The guy is a complete lunatic."
Jay sat in his car, looking disgruntled at the few, hurried pedestrians on the street. The neighborhoods that were once held in a delicate balance by multiple factions were now being swallowed, bullet by bullet and flame by flame, by death-defying fanatics.
"Closing down so many restaurants… what am I supposed to eat for lunch? Just for that alone, I'm going to beat this Sionis prick to death."
The GCPD had issued a warrant for Roman Sionis, but it was useless. Everyone knew the culprit was hunkered down near the docks with an army of guns, but whether anyone could actually go in and get him was a different story.
Though Commissioner Loeb's downfall was certain, he still wanted to leave with some dignity. Most of the police force was stationed around City Hall Plaza to ensure another disaster didn't break out.
Meanwhile, Jay and Wilson sat in their newly repaired E350, usually parked at the entrance of Robinson Park as a deterrent. This was roughly the border between the East and West Ends.
Jay had no interest in how messy the West End got, so long as it didn't spill over into his jurisdiction.
"It'll get better. I still have faith in The Roman's foundation," Wilson said with a yawn. "If three hundred guys could topple Gotham, Falcone would have died a hundred times over by now. Look at this…"
He handed the paper to Jay. "The media doesn't even care about the mob stuff anymore."
"But Black Mask is throwing money around, and there's no shortage of desperados looking for a payday. The guy might be sick in the head, but he's generous," Jay took the paper.
This time, the headline read: "BAT-MAN VS. MAN-BAT: URBAN LEGEND VS. MIDNIGHT MONSTER—WHICH ONE IS SUPERIOR??"
Below was a blurry photo taken under a searchlight: a winged beast in mid-air pulling a rope, with a cloaked dark shadow at the other end.
"Midnight monster, my ass. Who talks about this at midnight?"
Jay shook his head privately. Does Master Wayne really not have superpowers? He's out there every single night. That level of stamina was insane; a normal person would be bedridden for a week after two nights of that.
He looked back at the gun rack at the nearly twenty-kilogram "cannon" Cobblepot had sent over. A single round weighed almost two hundred grams. Suddenly, his confidence and anticipation surged.
…
THUD.
A body hit the wet ground, a pool of red slowly blooming beneath it.
"Dump him in the sewer. Don't let him rot here."
Another gunman in a skull mask nodded to the speaker. He slung his rifle, bent down to grab a leg of the corpse, and lugged it toward the depths of the alley.
The drizzle fell on his shaved, dark scalp, forming little streams that ran down his neck and made him shiver.
The lights in the alley had long since been smashed, leaving it pitch black. But this area had already been cleared by the Boss; everyone who resisted or refused to cooperate was dead. It shouldn't be a big deal.
Rainwater ran down the peeling walls, leaving twisted streaks. The wet, sticky sound of the body dragging against the pavement was unnervingly clear in the dead silence.
The further he went, the thicker the darkness became. He couldn't help but shudder, feeling a physical weight pressing on his shoulders. His grip felt heavier, too; several times he had to yank hard to pull the corpse over snags in the road.
The alley took a sharp turn. At the corner sat several broken wooden crates, emitting a rot-like stench. He stopped to catch his breath, rain dripping from the edge of his skull mask. In that brief silence, he realized he heard something else.
Creak—creak—
It sounded like unlubricated axles groaning under pressure, echoing through the maze-like alleys. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, yet it felt as if it were just around the next corner.
Then, he heard a strange, muffled voice, humming a nursery rhyme in a gentle tone.
"Old faces are ugly, let me peel them away.
New masks are shiny, to hide all your gray.
Good dollies get candy, they sleep and they stay.
Bad dollies get punished, and thrown far away…"
Creak—creak—
Closer now. At the end of the alley. There was supposed to be a wall there and a row of maintenance manholes leading to the sub-sewer system.
The rain felt colder, sliding down his spine. The gunman dropped the body's leg, slowly unslung his rifle, and flicked off the safety. His eyes strained behind the mask, but he could see nothing. Only that rolling sound, approaching at a leisurely pace.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry and aching. Maybe it's just some oblivious peddler who took a wrong turn, he told himself. Or a homeless guy pushing his life's belongings.
Creak—creak—
The metallic scent of blood in the air grew heavier. Now he could hear wheels crushing through puddles and the dull thud of a heavy load shifting in a cart. The cart had to be full and incredibly heavy, or the axles wouldn't moan so piteously.
He hugged the damp wall, finger on the trigger, ready to round the corner and aim. Just as he was about to turn, the creaking stopped. Then, with a soft shhh, a light flickered on, and a massive, hazy silhouette was projected onto the wall in front of him.
It was the shadow of a stout, burly man wearing a strange hat. The shadow bent over, and a wet, dragging sound filled the alley—something was being pulled out of the cart and dropped. Then, a heavy splash.
He peeked around the wall. In front of a wall covered in chaotic graffiti, several rusted manhole covers had been pried open, looking like the black maws of monsters.
A large, handmade pushcart stood there, its body covered in dark, mottled stains that looked like dried blood or rust.
An old lantern sat on the cart.
In its light, the man saw it: a jumble of twisted limbs, stacked layer upon layer. Standing beside the cart was a figure in a leather apron stained with unknown substances, wearing rubber gloves that reached his elbows, dripping with thick, dark red fluid.
His voice was raspy and unpleasant, accompanied by short, wheezing gasps for air. He was tall and fat, but didn't look clumsy. And his neck…
Above his neck, there was no human face. There was only a bloated, pinkish-white pig's head. The eyes on the pig mask were bloodshot, filled with mania, paranoia, and an utterly hollow indifference. Huge nostrils faced forward like black holes.
He lifted a small mesh bag of dismembered parts from the cart, sighing regretfully.
"Bad dollies get punished, thrown far away… The smallest one, so fragile… so imperfect. You couldn't even survive the anesthesia…"
Professor Pyg bent down, shaking his head as he gently tossed the bag into the hole.
Plop.
The sound was light, but it hit the gunman's heart like a sledgehammer. Terror flooded him like ice water. He had killed people, but that was straightforward violence with bullets and fire. This bizarre, hellish entity was far beyond his comprehension.
Should I fire? Or back away slowly?
For a moment, he was paralyzed. But the massive pig head turned toward him with an inhuman, stiff jerk. Those two eyes locked directly onto the corner where the gunman was hiding.
The nursery rhyme stopped.
The only sound in the alley was the pitter-patter of rain and the gunman's own heart, thundering against his ribs.
Pyg tilted his head, letting out a pig-like grunt from his throat, and took a step toward the gunman.
"Oink… a new… little dolly?"
BANG!
The gunman didn't even realize he'd pulled the trigger; fear had overridden his combat training. The bullet struck the wall beside Pyg, sending up sparks of brick.
But before he could adjust his aim for a second shot, a flash of silver whipped out from under the leather apron.
It was a butcher's knife used for cutting cartilage. The blade reflected the cold light of the lantern and the rainy night.
The gunman saw a blur. He felt a sudden cold sensation at his wrist. Before he could even scream, his gun—and half of his hand—dropped into the sewage with a dark splash.
He stared in horror at the stump of his wrist, then up at the mountain-like pig monster closing in. The pain had just begun to flare when a blade swept across his neck in a perfect, fluid arc.
"Another… flaw…"
…
"Master Bruce, you returned today with only two fractures. That is significant progress."
On the platform beside the underground waterfall, Alfred expertly set a cast on Bruce Wayne's arm.
"Furthermore, I have anonymously notified several media outlets that Mr. Wayne had a private late-night rendezvous and unfortunately slipped in the bathroom, and is considering a lawsuit against the hotel."
"Oh, Alfred, that's… well, it works."
Bruce Wayne sighed. "At least the problem is solved. Dr. Langstrom's wife promised to keep a close eye on him from now on. Anything else major happen?"
"That depends on your definition of 'major,' Master Bruce. There are gang wars breaking out almost everywhere."
Alfred packed up the medical supplies and handed over a glass of water and a white pill. "Take the painkiller. In half an hour, I shall have Earl Grey tea and a meal ready for you. How does a Beef Wellington sound?"
"Ah… perfect. Thank you, Alfred. By the way…" Bruce called out to the butler as he was leaving, "Is there anything valuable from the wiretap on that East Precinct Captain, Jay?"
"Well…"
The old butler hesitated. "Master Bruce, I would advise against continuing to monitor his communications. Firstly, there isn't much actionable intelligence. Secondly…"
"The frequency of his… colorful vocabulary is truly quite staggering."
——————
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