Chapter 97 : Disciple and Master
Consciousness returned to Tim Drake along with waves of pain. His head throbbed where Stirk had struck him and his thigh burned where the bullet had torn through muscle, and he could feel blood—sticky and warm—soaking through his costume.
He tried to move his hands and couldn't.
Chains. Heavy chains around his wrists, pulling his arms out to either side. More chains around his ankles. He was suspended in a standing position, barely able to touch the floor with his toes.
Tim forced his eyes open.
He was in the center of the factory floor. Candles surrounded him in a circle.
A ritualistic killing ground.
And sitting on the floor about ten feet away, cross-legged like a child at a picnic, was Cornelius Stirk.
He had a bowl in his hands—the pot from the kitchen, Tim realized with horror. Stirk brought a spoon to his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed with an expression of satisfaction.
"Exquisite," Stirk murmured to himself. "The fear-seasoned tissue has such a unique texture. Fibrous, yet tender. And the flavor..." He took another spoonful. "Like copper and desperation, with just a hint of regret."
Tim's stomach turned.
"Why?"
"Why do you eat the hearts?"
Stirk looked up and a smile spread across his gaunt face. "For justice, of course."
"Justice?" Tim couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. "How is eating someone's heart justice?"
Stirk set down his spoon carefully. "Because eating the heart fuels my powers, Robin. Surely you understand? The fear I harvest, the terror I consume—it all feeds back into my abilities. It makes my powers stronger. My reach wider. My hunger more refined." He gestured with the bowl. "Then I use my powers to do justice. Simple as that."
He took one final spoonful, chewing slowly and savoring it. Then he set the bowl down beside him and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Signal, Tim thought desperately, forcing his mind to focus through the pain. My suit has an automatic distress beacon thanks to the recent kidnapping. When my vitals dropped—unconsciousness, elevated heart rate, the wound—it would have sent a signal to the Batcave. Alfred knows. Help is coming. I just need to buy time.
Stirk walked to a nearby cardboard box and picked up a knife. He tested the weight, turning it over in his hand and wiped it with a small cloth nearby.
"Wait, If you're really doing this for justice, then explain something to me. Michael —the father you killed. And what about your doctor? What justice was that?According to my investigations, they are innocent."
Stirk paused, looking at Tim impatiently. "Michael 'scared' his child. So I got justice for the child. Now he wont have to worry about his father ever again."
He took a step closer.
"Dr. Helena was... unfortunate. When she saw my GPS location near the first crime scene, she called me. She told me she was going to contact the police." His expression hardened. "And when she threatened to send the police after me, to lock me away again in that cage... she became a fear-spreader too. Fear breeds fear. It had to be stopped."
"So anyone who gets you afraid deserves to die?"
"That's just crazy, Stirk. That's not justice—that's you being crazy!!!"
Stirk's eyes narrowed. He moved closer, the knife hanging loosely at his side. "Fear is the enemy, Robin. Fear is the disease. And enough questions. We've talked long enough."
"Isn't life full of surprises?" Stirk corrected his voice exaggerately and his voice took on that sing-song quality again. "Here I am, sane for a week, and already the far-famed Robin lies helpless at my mercy. I bet even the best doctors at Arkham never imagined this! Their prize patient, their success story, with Batman's partner chained and bleeding before him."
"You're crazy," Tim spat, pain and frustration bleeding into his voice.
Stirk's expression transformed instantly—the false friendliness vanishing, replaced by rage.
"Crazy?"
"The best doctors in Gotham pronounced me sane. Fit to walk the streets, to mingle with the crowd. They gave me papers, Robin. Official documents saying I'm rehabilitated, cured, safe."
He grabbed Tim's chin, forcing eye contact.
"And you dare call me crazy? What I'm doing is justice! Justice, you hear me? JUSTICE!"
"Have a care, sir," Stirk stepped forward and backhanded Tim across the face with a slap.
He stepped back, and his expression shifted again—that disturbing smile returning, wider now, too wide. "Although... of course, if crazy is what you want..."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Crazy I can give you."
The air around Stirk seemed to shimmer. His form began to change. His body expanded, twisted and stretched impossibly. His skin darkened to deep red, cracking like dried earth. Horns erupted from his skull, curving back and jagged. His mouth widened, splitting his face nearly in half, filled with rows of serrated teeth like a shark's maw.
The thing that had been Stirk loomed over Tim, its massive form blocking out the candlelight behind it. Its neck began to extend, snake-like, its head moving closer to Tim's, that horrible mouth opening wider and wider as if it intended to swallow his head whole—
"What are you?" Tim forced the words out despite his racing heart.
"Some cheap Architect knockoff? Your tricks won't work on me, Stirk. Give up this madness now, before it goes any further."
The demonic form shimmered and collapsed back into Stirk's gaunt human shape. But instead of anger, Stirk looked almost pleased.
"You're wrong, dear sir," Stirk said gently. "I'm not a cheap knockoff. I am his loyal disciple. The Architect corrects the obvious evils. But I..." He touched his chest reverently. "I correct what he's left behind. Together, we form a complete justice."
"Yeah, right," Tim said, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Blood was dripping from his wounded leg, forming a small pool beneath him. "If the Architect catches you, he'll end you himself. You are just making yourself a bigger target."
Stirk walked closer, the knife now raised. He brought the blade up, pressing the edge lightly against Tim's throat.
"Let's see what makes you afraid," Stirk murmured, his gray eyes studying Tim's face with intensity.
"Obviously not visions of monsters and demons. You're trained for that. So what is it, I wonder? What fear lives in the heart of a hero?"
The knife pressed harder, breaking his skin. Tim felt a warm trickle of blood run down his neck.
"You won't get away with this," Tim said, but his voice was weaker now. The blood loss was getting to him, making everything feel distant and fuzzy. "Stirk... you won't..."
"That's the way," Stirk said softly, almost soothingly. "Don't struggle. Struggling only makes it worse. Just let it happen. Let the fear come. Let me taste it properly."
He's trying to hypnotize me, Tim realized through the growing fog in his mind. The blood loss, the pain, the voice—he's using it all to lower my defenses. Got to keep my mind in check. I got to stay awake.
But it was so hard. Everything hurt. Everything was getting darker at the edges.
"Relax, friend," Stirk's voice seemed to come from very far away now. "You'll be all right. You can trust me. That's it, don't fight. You're weak... too weak. Just drift away. Let go. It'll be easier. Just drift..."
Tim's head lolled forward. The chains were the only thing keeping him upright now. The candlelight blurred and doubled. Stirk's voice became a distant murmur, words losing meaning, everything fading into comfortable darkness where nothing hurt and nothing mattered—
"That is enough, Stirk."
Stirk spun around, his hypnotic focus broken, his eyes wide with shock. "Who—?"
From the shadows beyond the circle of candlelight, a figure stepped forward.
He wore a dark hoodie pulled low over his face, obscuring his features in shadow. His build was average, unremarkable, the kind of form that would disappear into any crowd. But there was something about the way he moved—radiating an aura that made Stirk take an involuntary step backward.
"ARCHITECT!!!"