[center][sub][i]Guest-starring [@Nexus Prime] as Captain James Gordon...[/i][/sub]
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[color=darkgray]M A Y   2 N D,   2 0 1 6   [color=gray]♦[/color]   T H E   N A R R O W S   [color=gray]♦[/color]    G O T H A M   C I T Y,   N J   [/color][hr][hr][/center]
[indent]Gotham was quiet. It seemed that it always was these days, what spirit it had beaten out of it when the skies filled with mortal gods, its people retreating into silence as they took time to mourn. But that wasn’t anything new. Ever since its establishment, it had been this way. Gotham was always mourning. This time, it just had a greater loss to grieve. 

The crime scene was nestled between two run-down apartment blocks in the Narrows. The buildings were arranged in such a way that the alley was tucked into the shadows, away from prying eyes; it was the perfect place for a murder, covered by a pitch-black blanket in the night. The GCPD had cordoned off the area – yellow tape blocked the only entrance, police cruisers and officers stationed in front to usher away any curious passers-by. Remote area lighting was set up around the scene, CSI’s recording evidence in coveralls and masks. 

Batman stood near the police barricade, hidden in darkness. Near him was Captain James Gordon. He still looked like the lieutenant the Bat had met six years ago, determined, ever the beacon of good amid the cesspool of corruption that was Gotham. He watched the crime scene from his spot near a cruiser, back straight; he carried himself with military-like discipline, unwilling to let himself slip on the job. But Batman could smell the cigarette smoke on his trench coat, stronger than usual, and the bags under his eyes told the same story: Jim was weary. But unlike most people – unlike Batman – he shouldered that weariness and the stress that came with it, and used it to fuel himself. If anything, Jim was more purposeful than ever. 

[color=darkgray]“Jim,”[/color] said Batman. 

Any other person would have jumped out of their skin, to be snuck up on like that. But Jim had been at this for six years. He didn’t even turn to look.

“Batman.”

[color=darkgray]“What can you tell me?”[/color]

“Three vics,” Jim began. “No identification yet, but we're working on it. Medical examiner tells me this was a precision job, and judging from the way the bodies were left I'd say this was a professional hit. Multiple contusions from blunt force trauma and several lacerations to the heads and torsos. Each had their throat slit right along the jugular. Someone with serious skill killed these men, and they did it fast enough that no defensive markings were left; these guys didn't stand a chance.”

The captain finally turned slightly to glance back at Batman. “Whoever did this is definitely in your area of expertise, which is why I called you in. That, and one other thing.” 

Jim stepped to the side to allow the vigilante room to peer at the back end of the alley, and gestured with his right hand towards the brick wall there. “I think someone left you a message.”

One of the victims had been crucified to the wall, pinned by metal stakes. His throat opened up in a bloody smile, his head hanging low, the blood seeping into his clothing. It dripped onto the ground in steady drops, pooling four feet below him. To his right was a calling card, no doubt left by the killer, drawn in their victims’ blood –  

An owl’s head, shining in red, its bloody ink trickling down the wall.

The other two victims lay on the ground below it like nothing more than discarded dolls, thrown away by a bored child who got tired of toying with them.

The owl could have meant any number of things. One was Leland Owlsley. He was a stretch; although he was based relatively close to Gotham in New York City, the crimelord didn’t have any reason to expand his operations, least of all in an underworld already undergoing a power struggle in the shadows of the Kryptonian Invasion. And to announce his presence so boldly, leaving a message for a vigilante that he most likely didn’t think of as anything more than a myth, didn’t fit his M.O.; he prided himself on his intelligence, and despite it, he often relied on his strength in combat – he didn’t showcase the skill required to kill these men so efficiently. 

He was off the suspect list, for now.

The other potential culprits were so obscure that they bordered on near impossibility or myth. The White Owl had long been incarcerated, and the Court of Owls was nothing more than a nursery rhyme told to the children of Gotham and Blüdhaven to scare them into behaving. Their Talons were nothing more than words spun into nightmarish thoughts, and although thoughts could kill… it was never this gruesome.

[color=darkgray]“Pennywise,”[/color] said Batman, holding his fingers to the button activating his comm-link. [color=darkgray]“Are you seeing this?”[/color]

The lenses over his eyes were streaming the Batcave everything he saw. 

“That I can, sir,” replied Alfred. 

[color=darkgray]“I need you to look for anything that might be linked to this owl symbol. People, organisations – everything. Anyone that might be skilled enough to kill these men without a struggle. Send over what you find.”[/color]

“Of course, sir.”

Batman ducked beneath the yellow tape – “CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS” – the crime scene investigators giving him a wide berth as he traversed the alley. He stopped in front of the bodies, taking in every detail. His cowl’s HUD fed him information; their approximate height and weight, the measurements of the lacerations that covered them, estimations made by programs he’d created to aid him in his investigations. The victims were tall, all above six feet; they had muscle to accompany their height, with little fat to it, looking to be around one hundred and ninety pounds in weight. Whoever killed them had to be fast and strong to leave them so defenceless – a common crook would have been faced with a challenge, the victims’ strength and number an advantage against one man with a knife.

The lacerations were long and deep. Exempting the throat cuts, they were about seven inches in length, some cutting through skin, flesh and muscle to the bone – those on the victims’ faces were smaller in comparison, little more than scratches. [color=darkgray][i]Weapon likely had a spear-point blade,[/i][/color] noted Batman, [color=darkgray][i]Lacerations missed any vitals – purposeful. The killer wanted to cause pain. Toyed with them. Angles of the cuts suggest that they’re left-handed.[/i][/color]

The victims’ skin broke where the contusions stained it, patches of blue amid drops of red. [color=darkgray][i]Blunt force likely exerted through fists. Tissue disruption indicates the use of brass knuckles. Hits were hard – the cause of death. Throats were slit post-mortem.[/i][/color]

Jim said that the police were yet to identify the victims. It would take too long to wait for them to get a match, waste too much time – time that the killer could spend finding their next target. That was a risk Batman couldn’t take. Using the screen on his left gauntlet, he ran pictures of the victims through his own facial recognition software, containing data from the GCPD, FBI, CIA, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Interpol. He got a match within seconds.

Happy Ackerman. Dutch Hancock. Koby Hillam. Small-time crooks turned big-time thugs, wanted for multiple counts of assault and battery, grand larceny and armed robbery. Their employer: Edward Nashton. The Riddler. 

Currently held within Arkham Asylum.

[color=darkgray]“Pennywise. Anything?”[/color] Batman asked through his comm-link.

“I’m afraid not, sir. But you might want to beware of the Talon. Just look at how it’s left these gentlemen,” deadpanned Alfred.

Batman ducked under the tape once more, coming to stand next to Jim in the shadows. The more he ran the possibilities through his head, the more he was beginning to think that the killer was a new player. [i]Who[/i] this new player was, he didn’t know – but the information he gathered from the crime scene should help push him in the right direction. The victims were scum, but the killer was even more so. Innocent or not, they didn’t deserve to die.

[color=darkgray]“The killer’s left-handed, likely a male,”[/color] said Batman. [color=darkgray]“He used a spear-point blade, probably a knife. All lacerations but their slit throat were made with the intent to hurt, not kill. Whoever he is, he’s skilled enough to toy with his victims.”[/color]

“Yeah,” Jim glanced up at the body pinned to the wall, the man's face permanently distorted in pain from the moment of death. "I get the distinct feeling this guy had motives other than simple murder; playing with his victims before finishing them off like some sick predator definitely fits in line with that. A killer with professional talent like this wouldn't have left us so many clues if he didn't want to, or enjoy it.”

Batman nodded, continuing. [color=darkgray]“The victims died from blunt force trauma. The killer hit hard, with technique. He used some form of brass knuckles. Slit their throats after their deaths.”[/color]

“Thanks. I appreciate you coming in on this, Batman. I'm swamped with other cases as it is, and I still have the mayor breathing down my neck about clean up operations in the lower districts...” 

The older man stopped, stroking his moustache lightly as he studied Batman's crouched form. James Gordon had spent enough time around and with this particular vigilante to recognise that certain aspects were off; that something had changed ever since that incident with that clown creep last year. Batman could try and hide it behind his cape and cowl, put on a façade of indifference that was to be expected, and most people would buy. Most people thought the caped crusader was some sort of legend far beyond the understanding of mortal men. But Captain Gordon understood what Batman really was, and that even the so-called "Dark Knight" could be affected by horror and tragedy. 

“And Barbara will be coming back from university soon, so I've got that to prepare for,” said Jim, changing the subject. “I know she loves being independent and self-reliant these days, but I'll be more than glad when she's home again.”

Hidden from Jim behind his cowl’s lenses, Batman’s eyes rose to meet the captain’s. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a long time. Ever since she decided to lay the Batgirl to rest in pursuit of a better future – one outside of a coffin – she and Batman had maintained contact, although the effort was mostly coming from her. Alfred liked to presume that it was because her departure had hurt Batman, and if the vigilante was to be honest with himself – a rare occurrence – Alfred was right. It was why, when she’d heard of what the… [i]clown[/i]… had done, of what he’d forced Batman to see, and called him to give him a shoulder to lean on, he did what he’d done to everyone else, and pushed her away. It was why Dick had left, in part. Batman didn’t blame him.  

“She's doing great, though. Really proud of her and the future she's making for herself,” Jim went on. “She still asks about you when we talk on the phone, you know, not that I can ever tell her much. I'm sure she'd want to hear how you're doing, though. Make sure her hero and saviour is as well off as she's been. If you want to give me something I can tell Barbara to put her at ease that you're doing alright, I'll be sure to let her know...”

[color=darkgray]“Tell her I’m fine, Jim. She has no need to worry about me.”[/color]

A giggle, somewhere in the far recesses of his mind. A pale face. An insane smile. They flashed across his vision, replacing Jim for just a split second – ushering a wince that caused the captain to frown. 

The shadows grinned at him. “You’re [i]lyyyyy[/i]-ing,” they sang.

“Right,” Jim said, dubious. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”

His doubt hung in the air, like a bad smell. After a few seconds, Batman broke the silence, turning away. [color=darkgray]“Take care of yourself, Jim.”[/color]

“You too, Batman.”

Batman withdrew his grapnel gun from his belt, aiming at the roof above him. He pulled the trigger, the wire shooting out with speed, its clawed end clasping onto the edge with an audible impact. Pulled taut, the gun worked to carry Batman up, whirring in the process. He climbed from the edge of the roof with ease, walking west to the corner where he’d parked the Batmobile. The night wasn’t coming to an end; not yet. He had someone he wanted to talk to first. The Riddler was about to get an unexpected visit.

A camera flashed on the neighbouring rooftop. It went unnoticed by Batman, its owner smiling in the evening gloom. 

[i]“Perfect.”[/i][/indent]

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[center][color=darkgray]V I C K I   V A L E ' S   P E N T H O U S E   [color=gray]♦[/color]   T H E   F A S H I O N   D I S T R I C T   [color=gray]♦[/color]    G O T H A M   C I T Y,   N J[/color][/center]
[indent]It felt good to write again. Ever since Vicki Vale had received the offer to host her own show, she found that the time she once had to sit down in front of her laptop and write – [i]truly[/i] write – came few and far between. Now her time was spent interviewing celebrities with questions that were not her own, and talking about news she had not covered or delivered herself. She often felt like [i]the Vicki Vale Show[/i] was only hers in name, and she supposed that that was exactly what she’d bargained for, just like anyone else in showbusiness did – but the bitterness still remained, a part of her that wished she could do what she loved as [i]she[/i] liked it, not as her producers did. It was why she’d jumped at the offer to keep writing for the Gotham Gazette as a guest columnist; her time as the newspaper’s star journalist was time she looked back on with yearning – the piece she wrote on Carmine Falcone’s fall was still the one she was proudest of. 

She wasn’t sure exactly what she was writing now. It was part-tribute, part-recount; a piece on the Kryptonian Invasion in remembrance of those that died, commending the endurance of human spirit, while at the same time speaking against the storm of hate aimed at metahumans that came after the tragedy. The words had started to flow out of her the moment she sat down, and now, three hours later, a monster displayed itself on her computer screen, only continuing to grow with every press of the keyboard. She’d hit a groove, and she knew it. The words spilled onto the screen in a flurry of passion, the building blocks of what would surely take the place of her Falcone piece as the best article she’d ever written, and – 

Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her trance. Just like that, the magic was gone.

Vicki sighed, tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear. It was probably Bruce; he hadn’t been returning her calls, and it was just like him to send an apologetic text at this hour of night. She didn’t blame him. He was doing an admirable job in his effort to help rebuild Gotham, no doubt too busy to even consider catching up with friends. Picking up her phone, she frowned – the text was from an unknown sender. She entered her passcode.

Her gasp penetrated the silence of her apartment. The message definitely wasn’t from Bruce.

It was a picture of a rooftop, darkness swallowing the light, making the photo grainy at best – but the figure that stood at its centre, back to the camera, devil horns piercing the air and cape suspended mid-flow, was undeniable in its apparent identity. 

Below the attachment was a caption to accompany it, sending chills through Vicki’s spine, confirming her suspicions:

	[i]Where’s Batsy?[/i]

She fumbled to respond to the text, her nerves getting the better of her as she struggled to type the right letters. She knew that she should be deleting the messages, wiping them from her phone’s, and her own, memory. She couldn’t afford to get distracted by what was most likely a hoax. She’d had her run through the rumour mill; she’d heard stories of the Bat, ranging from a demon that preyed on men in the dark of night, to those claiming that he was nothing more than a myth spun by the GCPD to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. But her curiosity, her excitement, got the better of her, and she sent her mystery contact a reply.

	[i]Who are you?[/i]

Three dots appeared on her phone for four agonisingly long seconds before a new text arrived. It was cryptic, giving nothing away and yet raising gooseflesh all the same. Just two words.

	[i]A messenger.[/i]
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