Gotham City, NJ | January 1st, 2014It’s one-thirty in the morning. Takhwìkàmën lies still in the early whispers of the night, as my eyes look over the many notes I have jotted down from assorted cases from the previous year. It is here in this cavern that I feel the most comfortable, mulling over the research aspect of the process. However, there is one thing that eludes me as I look over this variety of information, one card—a card that has taunted me for what soon will be more than a week, the card of what is perceived as a highly religious bringer of death. But what has eluded me outside for the fact that this non-canonical religious card depicting Evelyn De Morgan’s famous illustration is not simply the odd choice of symbolism but rather the fact that I hadn’t found one trace of evidence or clue to link this case to anything which immensely bothers me. There’s a zealous maniac out there working in the shadows free from the law that is as vicious as they are illusive.
With my hands shuffled in my pockets I try to make sense out of it, perhaps I missed something? I admit that I have been rather distracted lately between League responsibilities, the Bruce Wayne image, the wards, argumentative debate with Alfred, and of course several facets of what I have to face as Batman. The False Face Syndicate is growing hungrier and stronger in Bludhaven, Mario Falcone has revitalized his crime family, and the Dimitrovs have taken a bit of control during this winter season from the Valestras who are on the brink of replying to these eastern european upstarts. Though, there’s still this weird feeling in my gut where today just happens to look a little less dim and harrowing. I didn’t expect the party at Phillip Kane’s to be anything but a distraction but seeing my cousin, Katherine, again was something… pleasantly nostalgic.
“A peculiar card.” Alfred’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts as my eyes glance over to him—he’s perched to my left, overlooking my notes.
“He’s taunting the police.” – or me, of which doesn’t matter if it’s me or the police since the man who is so loving of Azrael to the point where he’s like a ghost; a ghost that is here in Gotham blending in so well that nobody not even me can sniff him out.
“Indeed, but I truly doubt you staring at it for an hour longer will employ new evidence. As morbid as it may be, he’ll turn up when he strikes again, and eventually he’ll slip.”
I frown, unpleased by that answer even though I know it to be the likely scenario to fall-back on. I advert my eyes back to the card itself. It is exactly what I don’t want to happen. To just accept this deceptive zealot to keep at it eats away my soul as my resolve to find him strengthens. Even if I went undercover as Matches Malone I wouldn’t even know where to begin to start with sniffing this guy out—knocking on the cathedral’s main door wouldn’t lend me any useful hints, besides that was the first thing I tried and a circle will get me nowhere.
I loosen my form away from the table, there’s more problems in Gotham to look at, especially on a holiday where drunks run rampant.
“Harley, Dick. We’re going on patrol.”
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