[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/uBKcsIW.jpg?1[/img] [b]Part I:[/b] [b][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_kmIsmw2fc]“Season of the Witch”[/url][/b][/center] [b]Gotham Village[/b] [b]1647[/b] Alice Young looked out the window of her room. Dawn was still a few hours off, but she could make out the dim shapes of the stockade fence in the dark. She knew just past those fences, well within walking distance, would be the gallows. At daybreak they would slip a rope around her pale, slender neck and tighten it until she could barely breath. Then a hood would cover her face and Minister Thatcher would read the list of charges against Alice and pray for her soul. Then there would come the drop… and hellfire that followed. Not that Alice believed in hell. Or at least not the hell that Thatcher sold his flock. She had no use for the old man’s tales. She kept the old gods, the ones of her mother and her mother before her. Alice carried them over to the New World with her, keeping them secret from the rest of the god-botherers she’d traveled across the water with. She lived outside the village proper, in her little hut made of mud and sticks, and was only occasionally bothered when some desperate mother came to her door with a sick babe looking for a healing. Her reputation in the village bought her peace from everyone else. She was one of the few in the area who did not attend Thatcher’s torturous sermons and nobody missed her presence. They would give passing glances her way on the few occasions she came to town. They muttered crone and hag after she passed, but always under their breath. The rumor was that a farmer who crossed her ended up losing half a herd of cattle to blackleg. That fear kept her safe from their rage. Their fear bought her a wary respect. But then the sickness came. The pox ran roughshod over the village that winter. Sixteen, the young and old most of their number, were taken by the disease. From his pulpit, Thatcher rained fire and brimstone down on the villagers. There had to be a reason for God’s displeasure. They had done something to offend Him. And since there were no Jews to blame, their eye turned to Alice. A mob came for her in the middle of the night and dragged her from the hut, her nails scratching across the dirt floor as she tried to fight. The mob searched her house and found damning evidence. They found the shrine Alice had erected to her gods, the little sculptures of wood and rock that represented the fae and those gods who were in existence long before some Roman scribbled the name Jesus Christ on a piece of parchment. They found the drawings on the walls. The shapes and forms that represented the sacred geometry. The things that kept the darkness at bay. “Good morning, Alice.” The soft, velvety voice made Alice jump. She spun around and saw him… a tall, thin man with a mustache and wearing some outlandish clothing Alice had never seen before. Form fitting and ostentatious, it was in stark contrast of the people of Gotham’s modest dress. She’d never seen it before because it didn’t exist. Not yet, anyway. The word Victorian wouldn’t mean anything to the world. Not for another two hundred years. “Who are you?” Alice hissed. “Names…” the man chuckled. “Names have power, you must certainly know that. If you must call me anything… Call me The Architect.” At the mention of names, Alice began to dig into the dirt with her fingers. She etched shapes into the ground and stepped back until she was pressed against the wall. “Stay back, creature.” “I mean you no harm,” said The Architect. “At least not in the way the people of this village mean you harm. Aren’t they funny? The people of Gotham. They cling to their scripture and pray to their skygod, someone who has long since grown bored of His creation and turns a deaf ear to their pleas.” The Architect walked forward until he was at the very edge of the line of shapes Alice had drawn in the dirt. He glanced down at them and chuckled as he brushed them away with the toe of his shoe. “I am not some creature or spirit simple runes can hold back. I am something more, Alice Young. I am beyond heaven or hell. So save your tricks for someone else, hag.” “What… do you want?” “I’ve come to strike a bargain,” he said with a smile. Alice had heard this story before. The handsome stranger mysteriously shows up and is looking to make a deal. It never ended well, and there was always some unforeseen cost. But she was facing the gallows in just a few hours. If the choice was this… thing’s offer or whatever awaited her at the other end of the hangman’s rope… well, that wasn’t really much of a choice at all. “What did you have in mind?” Alice asked. [hr] [b]Gotham City[/b] [b]2020[/b] “Where the hell am I?” Tork looked up at cracked facade of the church. He could make out the faded letters of “Our Lady of Sorrows” against the side of the building. [i]This[/i] was the thirteenth precinct? This rundown, shabby little church with the boarded-up windows was supposed to be home to the Detailed Case Taskforce? “It’s not much.” Tork turned at the voice. Standing on the sidewalk beside him was a man in black suit. Tork noticed the emerald tie around his neck matched his eyes. His bright red hair had a shock of white running through it. “But it’s home,” he said before he offered his hand. “Detective Jim Corrigan. Are you the new sergeant?” “Frank Tork.” They shook hands. Tork did his best to not make a face when he felt Corrigan’s clammy hand against his. The detective made an apologetic face. “Poor circulation, sarge. Let’s go inside and meet the rest of the gang.” The inside was as dumpy as the outside, Tork found. The entire nave was gutted. The space that had once held rows and rows of pews was now devoid of that. Desks and metal work tables were scattered around the room in place of a pew. Though the church still held some of its former trappings. Tork was brought back to his Catholic school days by the statue of Christ on the cross hung on the far wall. The son of God's eyes were frozen in agony and they seemed to follow Tork as he walked across the room. "So what exactly do you guys do here?" Asked Tork. "I hear stories." "I bet you do," Corrigan chuckled. "None of them good, I bet. We do a bit of this and that." Tork was about to ask what they exactly meant when the front door opened and an honest to God nun walked in. Tork felt his pulse quicken at the sight. He thought of the nuns at Sisters of Mercy and the metal rulers they used with impunity. "Sister Justine," said Corrigan. "Come meet the new sergeant." “Why is there a nun?” asked Tork. “And a good evening to you, too, sergeant” Sister Justine said with just a trace of an Irish brogue. “Sister Justine is one of two civilian consultants Detailed Cases employs,” said Corrigan. “She has a double doctorate in theology and abnormal psychology, a masters in archeology... and am I forgetting something?” “A bachelor's degree in criminal justice,” said Sister Justine. “Tell me, Sergeant... “ "Tork. Frank Tork.” “Short for Francis, is it?” Tork cleared his throat. “Yes, Sister.” “You were raised Catholic, right?” Tork was taken aback. “How’d you know?” “The fear,” Sister Justine said with a grin. “I can see it in your eyes, Francis. No doubt you had a few run-ins with the sisters.” Tork heard a loud bang somewhere, followed by shouting in a foreign language Tork couldn’t readily identify but sounded Eastern European in nature. “That’s our other consultant,” said Corrigan. “Dr. Lazlo Tarr. He specializes in forensic pathology, among other unconventional sciences.” Tork put a hand to his forehead. A nun and a forensic pathologist on the payroll for this weird as hell unit. He needed to talk to a grownup. “Where’s the CO?” “Lieutenant Haskins has left for the day,” Corrigan said with a smirk. “He’s really more of a 9 to 5 type of guy.” “Doesn’t like to keep our hours,” said Sister Justine. “So... ,” said Tork. “Who’s in charge?” “I guess you are,” said Corrigan. “You’ve got the rank.” Tork started to say something, but a radio on Corrigan’s desk squawked to life. [i]“Charlie-13, it’s Delta-5. Do you copy?”[/i] “It’s Drake,” Corrigan said to Tork. “The other detective in the unit.” Corrigan picked the mobile radio off its charge cradle and pressed the button. “Charlie-13, go ahead Delta-5.” [i]“Jim, I think we got something. The boys at the 3-7 called in a homicide that sounds like it's up our alley. It’s run of the mill except for one thing… an eyewitness saw the doer walking through walls.”[/i] “Copy that. Give us your twenty and we’ll head out.” Corrigan looked over at Tork and raised an eyebrow. “You’re in luck, sarge. You’re about to get a first hand look at exactly we do here.”