Byrd Man

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

The Bowery
12:21 AM

Tork rode in the backseat of the unmarked car while Corrigan drove and Drake rode shotgun. Drake was on her phone and currently on hold with someone at City Hall. Like them, Peter Thatcher was a city employee. Not exactly like them, Tork thought grimly. The City Planner's office might as well have been on Mars it was so far away from what they did. City Hall and his coworkers would have all the details about his employment and projects.

“I thought the planner’s office would be closed this time of night,” said Tork.

“I have a contact,” Drake said over her shoulder. “They tend to move heaven and earth when I ask. You give someone some winning lottery numbers from time to time and they go the extra mile for you-- Yeah, I’m still here.”

They left the crime scene and split up. Sister Justine and Dr. Tarr headed back to the 13th to begin research into who or what Goodewitch Young was. While the consultants did the research, the cops were… well, Tork didn’t know exactly. They pulled up across the street from a pub and got out. Corrigan put a sign on the dash marking it as a cop car to ward off any antsy tow trucks.

“Before you ask,” Corrigan said to Tork. “I know a guy and we’re meeting him here.”

“Kavanaugh’s has a reputation among certain people,” said Drake. “It wasn’t always an Irish pub. It’s one of the oldest standing buildings in Gotham. Been around since the 17th century. It's been a public house three times, a post office once, a gentleman's club -- that's 19th century gentleman get your mind out of the gutter -- once, and a crime scene fifteen times.”

“That kind of history,” said Corrigan. “That kind of residual psychic imprint. It attracts those that feed on things like that. Ghouls and ghosts and other Sighted people.”

“The Right Folk,” Drake added. “That’s what they call themselves. Occultist and magic users. They’re little more than hucksters and gypsies, though.”

Corrigan raised an eyebrow at Tork. “But what better place to cultivate a snitch?”

They crossed the street and went into the pub. To Tork it looked like the typical dive bar, same bad lighting and same sad regulars at the bar. Tork did notice a group of strange looking people at a nearby table. They looked to be dressed like hipsters with waistcoats and tophats and petticoats. But he also noticed their clothing was frayed and dirty. They gave the trio of cops a long look and huddled closely together. Tork flashed a crooked grin. He was learning a lot of strange stuff tonight, but he found it comforting that even these so-called Right Folk knew cops when they saw them and gave them a wide berth.

Corrigan and Drake walked to the bar and Tork followed behind them. The two men tending bar were both elderly, bald men in matching shirts and jeans. As they got closer Tork noticed they were identical twins. One of them saw the cops out of the corner of his eye and turned to face them. He crossed his arms and spoke with a heavily Irish brogue.

“Evenin' officers. ‘I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. What am I?’”

“A candle,” said Corrigan. “Is Craddick here?”

“Yes,” was the bartender’s reply. He turned his attention to Drake. “I shave every day, but my beard stays the same. What am I?”

“A barber,” she said. “Where is he?”

“The backroom.”

The man started to turn to Tork, but Corrigan cut him off.

“That’s all we need, thanks.”

“What was that?” Tork asked as they walked towards the back of the bar.

“That’s why you never ask a fae for anything,” said Drake. “We’re lucky the Kavanaugh Twins only barter in riddles. Some fairies trade exclusively in sacrifice.”

First witches and now fairies, thought Tork. Okay, whatever. He had to keep fighting it if he wanted to stay sane. It was all weird and completely out of his depth, but those glasses of Dr. Tarr’s proved that there was something. He was along for the ride, and thankfully his two guides seemed to know what they were doing. Or so he fucking hoped.

“So, what’s your thing?” Tork asked Corrigan.

“What’s that?”

“Your thing,” he repeated. “Drake here is obviously a psychic or something--”

“Clairvoyant-able,” said Drake. “I'm not reading palms and using a fake Jamaican accent. Please, sarge.”

“Right... she’s that. Sister Justine is some kind of exorcist, Dr. Tarr some kind of mad scientist. What’s your thing?”

“My thing?” Corrigan paused to look at Tork before shrugging. “I’m the normal one.”

They went through a door into a private drinking area. The space held tables and chair, but nobody else. Corrigan stepped forward and glanced around.

“Craddick,” he said. “We know you’re here. Come on out and talk to us. We’ve got a case and we can use your help.”

“Tell us all you know about local witches,” said Drake. “And maybe we can trade some information on certain cursed artifacts.”

Witches, you say?

Tork looked around for the owner of the voice. It reverberated around the round so it seemed there was no point of origin. It was deep and cultured, like a posh Englishman. Then it appeared in front of the three cops.

---

13th Precinct
1:02 AM

Sister Justine started down the stairs leading into the basement. The 13th was unlike every other precinct in almost every way, but the one way it was especially different was the library. Three long rows of shelving carried tomes and volumes of the written word. The musty smell of books greeted her as she walked through the rows to find what she was looking for.

Not long after joining the GCPD Sister Justine merged her own eclectic collection of books with Dr. Tarr’s. Corrigan had also amassed quite an interesting collection in his time so they stored them all down here for quick reference. Books on the occult, books on history, books on abnormal psychology, and even more abnormal practices of medicine. There was a booklet on how to o a lobotomy next to the Gospel of St. Damien, the only banned book of the Bible written by a devil-worshiper. And beside it was the book Sister Justine was looking for. The thick black binding had no words on it cover. The only labeling came on the spine. The words A Macabre History of Gothamby J. Peter Stowe were laid out in a harsh white text that was only amplified by the pitch black of the book’s cover.

She tucked the book under her arm and started back up the stairs. She passed by Dr. Tarr’s workstation. The doctor had three monitors on the surface of his table. One monitor showed grainy black and white footage of the wolf enclosure at the Gotham zoo, another monitor displayed footage of a colonoscopy in progress, and the third monitor played an episode of the sitcom Bosom Buddies at full blast. On the table before Tarr was an unfurled scroll of Latin text and a crude diagram of a person drawn beside the writing.

“The Romans apparently captured a witchcraft user in 55 BCE during Caesar’s campaign in Gaul" Tarr said as she walked by. "They tried to cut him open to see what gave him his magic… suffice to say they were unsuccessful.”

Sister Justine took a seat at her desk and cracked open the book. A Macabre History of Gotham had been printed fifty years earlier and immediately panned for being sensationalist garbage and soon fell out of print. For them the book was their Bible, the one book the taskforce relied on time and time again. That’s something the new sergeant would figure out soon enough. No doubt Corrigan and Drake were showing him all the sights of their underworld. But that was just one part of it. Their work involved as much reading as it did monster hunting. So much of what they did was tied to history.

She began to leaf through the book for anything involving witchcraft. She found the chapter on the East End Strangler, the curious case of Cyrus Gold’s murder, and…

“‘A Flight of Witchcraft: The Trial and Disappearance of Alice Young.’ Bingo.”

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

Unknown Planet
Unknown Sector

Jess paced the floors of her cell with her hands clasped behind her back. The small window provided a view of the harsh desert she’d traversed for so many untold days and nights. It was hard to keep track because night was so brief thanks to the planet’s three suns. She still had no idea where she was, but she knew it wasn’t friendly at all.

She’d come to after passing out and found weapons in her face. Rifles that were, surprisingly, still using gunpowder and bullets like they used back on Earth. Two soldiers and a commanding officer stared at her as she realized she was strapped to a metal chair. Her body armor and boots were gone and she'd been stripped to her skivvies. Her ring still remained, though. They would have to cut her finger off to remove that.

“Name, rank, serial number,” the CO demanded. “And what is your purpose on this planet?”

Jess found it odd that she could understand them perfectly. They were humanoid and pretty close to Earthlings, but with a few differences like a more prominent forehead ridge and bigger ears. But just because they looked similar didn’t mean they spoke the same language. She thought when her ring’s battery died the universal translator went with it. Maybe there was still enough of a charge to provide that?

“Jessica Cruz, Green Lantern, 2814.2. I crash landed on this planet and am seeking a way back to the planet Oa.”

She may as well have been speaking Greek from the way they looked at her. That took her back. Even in the most remote backwaters of space they still knew what the Corps was. With these low-level soldiers a Green Lantern may as well be the milkman. They kept asking the same questions over and over again. She waited for them to get violent and rough her up... or do something worse, but they never did. After what felt like hours of going back and forth and getting nowhere they moved her to this cell.

She went to the bars of the window and tugged on them. They were solid metal. Jess cursed and thought back to her training. Kilowog had taught them that their rings weren’t their true weapons. No, the rings were just a tool. It was their minds that were the true weapons. The rings were conduits for their creativity and willpower. Even if the ring was dead, they could still fight and survive. Jess leaned against the abode-like wall and sighed. With her left finger she traced along the engraved corps logo on her ring. Jess stopped and looked down at the ring. Nobody knew for sure, but the rings themselves were supposed to be made of some of the hardest metal in the known universe. Forged from ore that came to be around the time of the Big Bang. It was sure as hell more durable than the metal on the window’s bars. Jess made sure the coast was clear and went back to the window. She put her ring against the bars and pulled it back before punching the bar as hard as she could. She cursed and felt a shock of pain run up her arm. But nothing was broke and on the bar was a small indention of where her ring had smashed into it. Not much, but it was a start. She reeled back further this time and struck the bar as hard as she could.

---

Oa
Sector 0001

“Alright, poozers.”

Kilowog put his hands on his hips and looked at the half dozen Lantern cadets standing in front of him. Children, that was the best way to describe them all. The big Bolovax Vik towered over them, not a one of them would be a hundred chogats soaking wet. They all might as well have had signs on their forehead that blinked “KILL ME!” in bright neon.

“Anyone here know how you become a Green Lantern?”

A bald, pink-skinned Lantern with pointy ears raised a hand.

“Al-X, right?”

“Y-yes,” he said with a slight stutter. “When a Lantern falls in the line of duty… their ring departs the body and searches their home sector for a replacement, someone with immense willpower and the ability to overcome great fear…”

Kilowog crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Well? Is he right?”

After an awkward silence Kilowog finally spoke.

“Yes, he’s right. Or he used to be. Until recently, at the time of a Lantern’s death or retirement the ring initiates what we call a legacy protocol. And like my eager friend said here, it searches their home sector for a sentient lifeform who can be a suitable replacement. That’s changed. Or at least we are experimenting with the idea of change.”

He narrowed his eyes and continued. “As a concession to the Galactic council, the Corps has launched its first full-fledged cadet program and you six are the first class of that program. And I will be honest with you: I do not want you here.”

He saw looks of horror flash on all six of their faces. He resisted the urge to smile at their discomfort.

“Each and every one of you were political appointees. Plain and simple. You may have qualities that we look for in a Lantern, but the rings did not pick you. You are here to see if the Corps can be ‘modernized’ into an organization with ‘standards.’ Which means some bureaucrat somewhere doesn’t understand what it means to be a real Lantern.”

Kilowog spat at his feet and wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But you, on the other hand, will find out very quickly what it means to become a real Lantern. You will suffer, you will be injured, you will have aches and pain, but you will learn, you will get better. You are not wanted here and I do not think any one of you is fit to carry a real Lantern’s jockstrap. I hope each and every one of you prove me wrong.”

He flashed them a smile that had a lot of teeth, but very little warmth.

“Let’s get started.”

---

Cromica C21
Sector 2814

Screams and the sound of blaster fire filled the air. People ran out the cantina as a drunken miner stumbled out, blaster clamped in his pudgy fist and green blood covering his shirt. He fired off shots into the air before spinning around with the gun.

“The sonofabitch shouldn’t have kept cheating. He was a dirty fucking cheat and he got what he deserved.”

“Stay where you are,” a harsh voice announced.

Four men in navy blue jumpsuits surrounded the drunk miner. They leveled blasters at him. The weapons whined as they warmed up and prepared to fire. The miner may have been drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He dropped his weapon and put his hands in the air in surrender.

“You’re coming with us,” one of the men said.

“He’s coming with me,” a voice said from behind them.

Hal stood there with his power ringer glowing energy. Jelcs was at his side with his own weapon at the ready.

“Hal Jordan, Lantern 2814.1 and you gentlemen are?”

“Pax Mining security,” said one of the men. “This man is one of our employees.”

“And he committed a crime on a planet under my jurisdiction.”

The four security guards, because that’s what Hal thought of them as, didn’t flinch. They were rent-a-cops with nerve. They seemed quickly forgot about the miner as Hal approached them. They trained their blasters on him and ordered him to stay where he was.

“Four to one,” said one of the guards. "You think that's a smart move?"

“They don’t hire Green Lanterns for their smarts,” said Hal. “And while I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed,” an emerald war hammer formed in his hands. “I can tell you a sledgehammer does a hell of a lot more damage than garden shears.”

“Gentlemen, stand down right now!”

A Kree man steeped between Hal and the Pax security goons. The guards slowly lowered the weapons at his command. Hal noticed his clothing -- the fashionable Kree tunic and pants made out of the finest materials the empire had at it disposal -- and reckoned they cost more than what your average miner made in a year. The man flashed Hal an apologetic smile and extended a blue hand to him.

“Quin Del’vin,” he said. “Executive Vice President, Pax Mining Conglomerate.”

“Pleasure,” Hal said without shaking his hand. “Now, Mr. Del’vin if you don’t mind I have an arrest to make.”

“Now hear me out, Lantern…”

“Jordan,” said Hal.

“Lantern Jordan.” He said with another attempt at a charming smile. “Our employee here has committed a very serious crime, but we are more than capable of handling it. With us being so far away from civilization Pax has taken the burden of enforcing the laws in this system. I think to help with continuity we should take our employee into custody.”

“There’s a new sheriff in town,” Hal said with just the hint of a smile. He’d always wanted to say that. “And civilization is following with him. Your security people can go back to protecting your mines and drilling platforms, Mr. Del’vin. I’ll take it from here.”

Del’vin’s cheerful persona evaporated. The face that was left was cold and stony. He was a man who wasn't used to hearing no. For quite a while he'd been the only authority in this star system. And now it seemed he wasn't a fan of changing that up.

“You might want to ask your friend over there what happened to the last sheriff,” Del’vin snarled, jutting a finger towards Jelcs. “Lawmen on this planet have a bad habit of turning up dead.”

“Was that a threat?” Hal asked.

“And if it was?" He stepped forward with a finger pointed in Hal's face. "Are you going to hide behind your ring and--”

Before Del’vin could finish his insult, Hal deactivated his power ring and swung for the Kree’s head with his right hand. He caught Del’vin flush in the forehead and dropped him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The thugs raised their blasters as Hal activated his shield and lashed out. An emerald bullwhip cracked through the air and knocked the blasters from their hands in one smooth arc. Three of them cried in pain and stepped backwards. But the fourth started back towards his fallen weapon. Before he could reach it, the bullwhip cracked in the air and lashed him across the face.

“Leave it,” Hal roared, rearing back with the whip again. “Or I will whip all of you within an inch of your life.”

“You’ve made a huge mistake,” Del’vin said as he got to his feet. His fine clothes were now covered in dust and dirt. “The worst goddamn mistake of your life.”

“If I had a one credit for every time I heard that,” said Hal. “Well... I'd be able to afford to dress like you. Get out of here and put some ice on that head of yours, Mr. Del’vin. It looks pretty nasty.”

Hal could see it was already bruising and swelling. Del’vin would have the symbol of the Green Lantern Corps impressed there for a while. The Kree stared daggers at him for a long moment before he turned and walked away without another word. His men followed in his wake. They left their blasters on the ground just like Hal had commanded.

“Constable Jelcs,” said Hal. “Please place our prisoner in custody.”

Jelcs nodded and pulled out a set of cuffs. The miner seemed to have sobered up some watching the drama play out. He went willingly when Jelcs slipped the compression cuffs on his wrist.

“Del’vin is the most powerful man on this planet,” said Jelcs. “Do you think it was a good idea to piss him off like that?”

“Yes,” said Hal. “When people around here see the planet’s most powerful man walking around with a GLC sigil cut into his forehead, they’ll know who did that to him and how serious they are about taming this whole damn system.”

They started back to the jail with the prisoner. The people on the street were eyeballing them as they walked. They gave them a wide berth, but Hal noticed that just as many people were looking on approvingly as those who looked on with either fear or anger.

“I don’t know,” said Jelcs. “Del’vin doesn’t like people telling him what to do. Doesn’t think the law applies to him and his company.”

“The law applies to everyone,” said Hal. “I’ve found if you apply something with enough force, it tends to stick. Some people just need a little more force than others.”

Name change request

Done.

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

Adolphus Wood Parkway
11:23 PM

“So how does a nun take a job with the Gotham PD?”

Tork glanced out the corner of his eye at Sister Justine. They rode in his squadcar while Corrigan and Dr. Tarr dove ahead of them in a white van leading their two-car convoy. He noticed she worried a well-worn rosary between her long, slender fingers.

“Detective Corrigan,” she said. “He recruited me along with Dr. Tarr.”

“And the Church is cool with you moonlighting with the GCPD?” asked Tork.

Justine paused for a long moment before they shrugged. “My relationship with the Church is… complicated. I haven’t been ex-communicated but I am… never particularly welcomed whenever I interact with their emissaries. The things I’ve done in my past are well within acceptable Church doctrine, but it’s not something they like to discuss. ”

Sister Justine looked over at Tork and stared at him solemnly.

“Are you a religious man, sergeant?”

Tork felt his face flush. He didn’t think she was doing it on purpose, but she had the capability of shaming and embarrassing him. It seemed to be something every sister possessed. “I used to be. But the things I’ve seen since becoming a cop have made that faith erode.”

“The work we do here will make restore your faith in God,” she said softly. “You’ll know He exists… and then you’ll wonder why He allows this world to continue.”

“Again,” Tork said with a sigh. “What kind of work does that to a person?”

“You’ll see,” she said. “If I describe it you’ll laugh me off. The only way to become a believer is to see firsthand.”

They followed Tarr’s van down an off-ramp. They were somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The small, cramped rowhouses of the East End were replaced by comfortably middle class homes.

“What about the L.T.?” asked Tork. “Is he a ‘believer’?”

“He’s a clockwatcher,” said Sister Justine. “Counting down the days left until he takes his twenty year retirement. Lieutenant Haskins is the boss, but you’ll find that Corrigan is the one who really runs the show.”

---

An unmarked police car with flashing lights sat parked outside a nice two story home. Tork was surprised something gruesome had happened out this way. They were still in the Gotham city limits, but just so. A few blocks away would be unincorporated Gotham County, where an entire generation of working professionals called home. Not the city that their parents and grandparents had been raised in. Good enough to work in and commute to, but not good enough for them to actually live in. Because of that this part of the city was without a doubt the most sleepy and peaceful section for the GCPD to police.

Their small convoy pulled up behind the unmarked. Tork and Sister Justine got out along with Corrigan. Dr. Tarr rooted through the back of the van for some sort of equipment. Waiting for them on the lawn was a dark haired woman in a pants suit. Tork saw the badge dangling around her neck.

“Sergeant Tork, this is Detective Lisa Drake,” said Corrigan. “The last member of merry little band.”

Tork shook Drake’s hand. He saw a curious look flash across her eyes as they temporarily glazed over.

“Club soda and dishwashing detergent will get that stain out…”

Tork furrowed his brow. “What stain?”

“Your coffee stain,” said Drake.

Her eyes focused again and an apologetic look flashed in them.

“Sorry, Sergeant Tork… just, umm... Yeah you’ll see.”

“Did someone reach out to your or did you hear it over the scanner?” Corrigan asked Drake.

“I heard on the radio a patrolman calling in for a potential psych eval on an eyeball wit. That peaked my interest, and it doubled down on the description of seeing someone walking through walls. Then I got here and convinced the uniforms to let us have a look before the coroner shows up--”

“This whole place is covered in orgone energy,” said a heavily accented voice from behind Tork.

He turned and saw Dr. Tarr, a tall and thin man with a receding hairline, thick goatee, and even thick glasses. In the good doctor’s hands was a battered metal toolbox.

“Do you not feel it, Sister Justine?”

Tork glanced over at the nun. There was a worried look on her face and she worked her rosary beads intently.

“Let’s go inside and see what’s going on,” Corrigan said. “Then we can talk about energy, orgone or otherwise.”

The inside of the house was decorated in what could only be called New Age Basic Bitch. Lots of mason jars, signs about home and wine. An unironic Live, Laugh, Love sign hung above a fireplace. In front of that sign, dangling from the ceiling fan, was a dead body. A thin, middle aged man hung from a necktie. He had all the signs of death by strangulation. Bulging eyes with a swollen tongue poking out the corner of the mouth.

Tork had seen his share of hangers, but it seemed like the rest of the group saw something he didn’t. Corrigan scrutinized the dead body while Sister Justine and Dr. Tarr carefully examined the floor beneath the dead man’s dangling feet.

“Who is he… was he?” Tork asked.

“Peter Thatcher,” Drake said as she walked towards the far wall. “Forty-five years old, employed as an architect. The wife was found on the floor right here at the wall, scratching at it and screaming her head off. Said she saw someone go through the wall just as Peter started to swing.”

“No chair,” said Tork. “Nothing for him to stand on or jump off of.”

“Well we know she was telling the truth,” said Corrigan. “We just need to--”

“Wait,’ Tork interrupted. “How do we know that?”

The four members of the squad exchanged looks with each other. Corrigan looked at Tarr and nodded. The doctor placed his toolbox down on the floor and popped it open.

“It appears that you are a man of science, Sergeant Tork,” he said as he rooted through the box. “Like me. Now our colleagues here, they have the gift of the Sight. But for you and I?”

Tarr pulled a pair of glasses from inside the toolbox. To Tork they looked identical to the own thick lenses the doctor wore on his face. The only difference was the greenish tint on the lenses.

“We must adapt.”

He handed them to Tork and raised an eyebrow.

“‘One of the four beasts saying 'Come and see,' and I saw,’” said Tarr.

Tork slipped the glasses on and immediately wished he hadn’t. The entire room had took on a ghostly green aura. He could see Thatcher’s dead body was covered in it, particularly around his hands and neck. At his feet a collection of the energy spiraled upwards in a slow pattern. There were bright green footprints that led to the far wall where Drake stood. On the wall was an outline of a door.

“What the fuck,” Tork said as he took the glasses off. “What is that?”

“It’s what we see, sarge,” said Corrigan. “Drake, Sister Justine, and I. All the time.”

Tork let the glasses fall to the ground. Tarr let out a gasp of concern, but it died in his throat when the glasses safely landed on the carpeted floor.

“Fuck this,” said Tork.

He stormed through the living room and found himself in the kitchen. Tork paced furiously across the hardwood surface. He didn’t notice a half empty coffee cup on the edge of the kitchen island until he ran into it. The cup fell to the floor and spattered his pants with coffee. Tork took a deep breath and laced his hands through his hair. Deep breaths were the key to keeping himself calm and steady. Big breath in… hold it…. Now big breath out.

“We’re not fucking with you,” Corrigan said as he came into the kitchen. “And we’re not crazy… well, we’re crazy, but not to the point that we’re making all this up.”

“So what is all that shit I saw out there?” Tork snapped. “If you’re not fucking crazy, and if you’re not pulling my chain, then what is it?”

“Magical energy,” Corrigan said with a straight face.

“Yeah, sure,” Tork laughed. “You like the Easter Bunny for this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Corrigan. “This is more the work of an occultist, a powerful one by the looks of it.’

“Makes perfect sense,” said Tork.

He started to pace through the kitchen and shaking his head.

“What the fuck did I get into?”

“This is what we do, sarge,” said Corrigan. “Our unit. On paper, we’re listed as some backroom research squad. But the truth is much more complicated. Sometimes the supernatural forces of Gotham step out of line. That’s where we come in. You may not believe in it, sarge, but that doesn’t matter. It sure as hell exists.”

“James, Francis,” Sister Justine called from the living room. “We found an item of interest, please join us in the sitting room.”

“Just sit back and watch,” Corrigan said. “Watch us in action. If this gets too real or you can’t handle it well… you can always ask the lieutenant for a transfer.”

“Actually, I can’t,” said Tork. “But I’m sure you know that.”

“I looked into you,” Corrigan said as they walked back into the living room. “Anybody who joins my team, against their will or not, I make sure I can trust them before they come aboard. Come on.”

Drake, Tarr, and Sister Justine were gathered around… something on the floor. It was at the base of the wall where the door had been formed. Tork reached down to the floor and picked the pair of glasses Dr. Tarr had given him up. He slipped them on and let the greenish hue fill his vision again. Tis time Tork was ready for it. He and Corrigan joined the others at the wall.

“There’s something here written on the baseboard,” Tarr said. “Looks to be the work of our perp. We can’t make it out.”

“Looks like some kind of dead language,” said Corrigan.

“It’s Old English,” said Sister Justine. “The common tongue of witchcraft.”

“Shit,” said Drake. “An honest to God witch?”

Dr. Tarr pulled another device from his toolbox. To Tork it looked like a basic tablet, but he saw the blood red filter on the tablet’s camera lens. Tarr bent down and snapped a photo of the writing. A few seconds later the tablet chimed.

“The translation is as follows,” he said. “‘Wrath be to the house of Thatcher on this day and time. Be it so that the line ends on this day and time. A curse upon this house and all who shall dwell in it. So be it ordained in my master’s will and covenant, Goodewitch Young.’”

“Yep,” said Corrigan. “Not a dabbler or some asshole with a few pages of a spellbook… a proper incantation and curse. We got a real witch…”

“Club soda and dishwashing detergent,” Sister Justine said to Tork.

“What?” asked Tork.

“The stain, dear,” said the nun. She pointed a finger at below Tork's waist. The upper thighs of his pants were flecked with dried coffee stains. “Club soda and dishwashing detergent is best for coffee stains.”

Tork looked over at Drake. She simply shrugged.

“Tried to warn you.”

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

You ok my dude?

@Roman

I just wanted you to know I appreciated the fuck out of that sheet.

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

That's not including all the time I took finding the icons, sizing them and making them transparent. Oh and I made the song title gif from scratch too.

@Lord Wraith

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

THINK OF HOW MANY GODDAMN POSTS YOU COULD WRITE IN THE TIME IT TOOK YOU TO CODE THAT BULLSHIT!

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

I think this is the peak of my BBCode and/or insanity.

@Lord Wraith

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

Part I:
“Season of the Witch”

Gotham Village
1647

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.

---

Gotham City
2020

“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. This 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.

“Charlie-13, it’s Delta-5. Do you copy?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

THE NIGHT SHIFT

---

^{_{Jim Corrigan♦ Lisa Drake ♦ Michael Tork♦ Sister Justine ♦ Dr. Lazlo Tarr}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

<sup>"My troubles they are many, they're as deep as a well.
I can swear there ain't no heaven but I pray there ain't no hell"
-- Blood, Sweat & Tears

"There are things that go bump in the night, make no mistake about that. And we are the ones that bump back."
-- Guillermo del Toro.</sup>

Located in a condemned church, the GCPD's unofficial 13th precinct, is a section of the police force known only as the Detailed Case Task Force. An off-shoot of major crimes, their mandate is vague and their funding is immense. They have never made an official arrest, their work has never resulted in a legal conviction, and the few items of paperwork they submit are confusing. To the politicians they are a prime example of government waste.

But the truth is very simple:

Gotham City is cursed.
Poisoned by shadow.
It can't possibly survive...
without protection.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

I want to tag up on a lot of the same themes and ideas I used during my last Constantine run a few games ago. The power of cities, the ghosts and memories that coexist together to give a place its sense of being. In addition to that, I just like the idea of supernatural cops and tackling the macabre history of cities.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Characters:

Jim Corrigan -- GCPD Detective. Spirit of Vengeance.
Lisa Drake -- GCPD Detective. Psychic.
Sister Justine -- Nun. Exorcist.
Dr. Lazlo Tarr -- Doctor. Graverobber?
Lt. Haskins -- Supervisor. 459 days until retirement.
Sergeant Francis Tork -- New arrival. Skeptic.
Jim Craddock "The Gentleman Ghost" -- Spirit. Snitch.

P O S T C A T A L O G::

---

“Season of the Witch”

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