Chapter 98 : Communicator
Cornelius Stirk's face transformed the moment he saw the figure step from the shadows. The confusion, the defensive posture—all of it vanished, replaced by the look of someone who saw their god..
"You," Stirk breathed, his voice trembling with emotion. "You're here. You're actually here."
The Architect remained silent, standing just at the edge of the candlelight. His hooded face stayed hidden in shadow, but his posture radiated a calm, cold menace that filled the space.
Stirk took a step forward, then another, his movements almost reverent. "I've read everything about you. Every article. Every report. Every witness account I can gather. From there, I've studied your philosophy and your purpose in detail."
"You're the reason I finally understood what I was meant to be."
"You threw away your second chance," the Architect said. "Twenty years in Arkham. You got it all. Treatment. Rehabilitation. Release. And within days, you have started killing innocents. Why?"
Stirk looked genuinely confused by the question.
"Threw away? No, no, you don't understand." He gestured around at the factory, at the chained and bleeding Robin and the unconscious person in the shadows, at the ritual setup of candles and preparation.
"I'm not throwing anything away. I'm using my second chance to do something good. I'm finally free to do what I was always meant to do—to follow in your footsteps. To be your disciple."
The Architect took a single step forward. "My footsteps?"
"Yes!" Stirk's enthusiasm was palpable, almost childlike.
"You showed me the way. You proved that powers when properly directed, become justice. You feed on the guilty. I feed on fear. When you remove the obvious ones, I remove the small ones. It's the same principle. The same balance. The same justice."
Behind Stirk, barely conscious in his chains, Tim Drake's head lifted slightly at the voices. His vision was blurred from blood loss, but he could make out two figures now—Stirk, and someone else. The someone else who'd interrupted. Help? Or another threat?
"Michael," the Architect said. "What was his crime?"
"He frightened his child," Stirk replied immediately, as if the answer were obvious.
"What about your doctor, Helena Smith?"
"She threatened to call the police. She was afraid of me, which proved she never truly understood my nature. And her fear would have led to my re-incarceration, which would have prevented me from continuing the work. She had to be removed."
The Architect was quiet for a long moment.
"So anyone who feels fear deserves death. Anyone who makes others afraid, even momentarily, deserves to be hunted. That's your philosophy."
"Yes," Stirk said, clearly relieved that the Architect seemed to understand. "Exactly. You see it now. We're not so different, you and I." He spread his arms in an almost pleading gesture. "I'm your disciple. Your student. Your—"
"Where are my manners?" Stirk suddenly interrupted himself, looking down at the knife still clutched in his hand. "Here I am, meeting my mentor, my inspiration, and I'm holding a weapon like some common thug."
He crouched down and carefully placed the knife on the floor, then straightened, his hands empty and open in a gesture of respect and non-aggression.
"We could work together," Stirk said, his voice eager now. "You handle the obvious monsters. I handle the subtle ones—the fear-spreaders, the anxiety-creators, the people who poison society quietly. Together, we could create true balance. Complete justice. A city free of both violence and fear."
He took a step closer to the Architect, his expression was hopeful, almost desperate for approval.
"Don't you see? I'm not your enemy. I'm your ally. Your partner in this sacred work. We could—"
The Architect's hands began to change.
The transformation was fluid. His fingers elongated, the tips sharpening into black, razor-edged claws that gleamed in the candlelight. The biomass rippled beneath his skin, reshaping itself into weapons designed for one purpose: killing.
Stirk's expression fell. "What... what are you doing?"
"You misunderstand everything I am," the Architect said quietly. "Everything I do."
"No," Stirk said, shaking his head, backing up a step. "No, I followed your philosophy. I understood the message—that those who serve balance should embrace their nature, that feeding on the guilty is righteous, that—"
"I target monsters," the Architect interrupted. "Predators. People who torture, rape, murder, corrupt. People the system has failed to stop. People whose guilt is absolute and whose victims cry for justice."
He took another step forward, claws flexing. "You're killing people for the crime of being afraid. For yelling at their children. For doing their jobs as psychiatrists. You've twisted everything I stand for into an excuse for your pathology."
"But—" Stirk's voice cracked. "But I'm doing justice! I'm serving balance! Why are you turning against me when I'm doing exactly what you taught me to do?"
"I never taught you anything," the Architect said. "You learned nothing. You're just another killer wearing philosophy like a mask."
Stirk's face transformed then—His gray eyes focused with sudden intensity on the Architect's hidden face.
"Then I'll make you understand," Stirk hissed.
His psychic power lashed out—a focused assault on the Architect's mind, trying to break through his mental defenses and project the terrors that had worked on Robin, on his victims and on everyone who'd ever faced Cornelius Stirk's wrath.
The connection formed—
And hit a wall.
Stirk's psychic probe encountered something vast—an ocean of absorbed consciousness, hundreds of consumed minds all layered together, forming a mental architecture so complex and fortified that his powers couldn't find purchase. It was like trying to hypnotize a crowd of thousands all at once.
Worse, beneath that ocean of minds, something looked back at him. Something that recognized his psychic intrusion and responded.
Stirk gasped, pulling his power back, staggering. "What... what *are* you?"
"Justice."
Architect moved forward—
The sound came first. A sharp crack that echoed through the factory, followed immediately by a explosive impact.
Stirk's head snapped backward violently. The left side of his skull simply erupted—bone, brain matter, and blood spraying in a wide arc across the factory floor. The exit wound was massive, far larger than the entry point, consistent with a high-caliber round designed to fragment on impact.
Stirk's body stood for one frozen moment, his remaining eye wide with shock and confusion. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed, falling into the circle of candles, his body twitching once, twice, then going still.
Dead.
The Architect spun toward the direction the shot had come from—a boarded window on the eastern wall, about fifteen feet up. He moved with inhuman speed, crossing the factory floor in seconds.
He reached the window and tore away the boards. The window beyond was broken, providing a clear line of sight to the rooftops across the street.
There. On a building roughly three hundred yards away, elevated position, perfect firing angle. The Architect's enhanced vision—a gift from absorbed predator genetics—picked out the details even in the darkness.
A sniper's nest. Professional setup. But already abandoned.
The Architect's body transformed, biomass forming a gliding membrane between his arms and torso—borrowed biology from the flying squirrel genetics he'd absorbed months ago. He launched himself from the window, catching the air currents, soaring across the gap between buildings.
He landed on the rooftop in a crouch, the membrane retracting back into his body instantly. His enhanced senses spread out, taking note of everything.
The sniper's position was still warm—thermal traces from a body that had been lying prone here moments ago. Shell casing on the ground, still warm to the touch. .50 caliber, high-explosive round. Military grade. The rifle itself was gone, along with the shooter.
The Architect's hearing, enhanced to pick up sounds far beyond human range, detected something. Above. The distinctive sound of rotor blades cutting through air, moving fast, already several blocks away and gaining altitude.
Helicopter extraction. Professional.
The sniper had been airborne within thirty seconds of taking the shot.
Already beyond pursuit range.
The Architect straightened, his enhanced senses confirming what he already knew—the shooter was gone. But something else caught his attention.
On the ground near where the sniper had positioned, carefully placed so it wouldn't be disturbed by the rifle's recoil, was a small device. Rectangular, about the size of a phone, with a single blinking light.
A communicator.
The Architect crouched beside it, examining it with both enhanced vision and tactical awareness.
No explosive signatures. No chemical markers for toxins.
Just a communicator, deliberately left behind.
A message from someone.
He reached down and picked it up. The moment his fingers made contact, the device activated.
A hologram projected upward. It was not high quality, slightly grainy, but clear enough to make out details.
It showed a woman's face, dark-skinned, middle-aged, stoke faced with an expression of absolute authority. She wore what looked like a government building backdrop behind her, though the details were deliberately obscured.
The woman's eyes locked onto the Architect's, unflinching even as she faced the very nightmare that haunted countless criminals.
Her lips moved, and a voice came from the communicator's speaker:
"Architect."