Lena's scream never leaves her throat.
The feral Rex moved before thought even existed.
A blur of dark muscle and blue-veined fury.
A shadow with claws.
Her scalpel flashes— a futile attempt at trying to deal some sort of damage to him.
He grabs her wrist.
Squeezes.
Bones snap like dry twigs.
She shrieks— kicking and flailing as he lifts her off the ground by the throat— as he is now a good two times higher than his normal 5 feet, eleven inches— feet kicking uselessly in the air.
Her eyes fill with pure, animal terror.
"Wh—what are you—?" she tries to squeeze out words but they barely come out as whispers.
Rex's voice is a sound she does not understand.
A growl that seems to vibrate the alley walls.
Not anger.
Instinct.
Pure instinct.
One swipe—A brutal, decisive slash—And Lena's body hits the pavement, lifeless before it lands.
Blood spreads in a slow, warm halo.
Rex stands over her, chest rising and falling like a beast fresh from the hunt.
Then he freezes.
A strange shiver rolls down his spine.
The world tilts.
His head twitches to the right—then the left—like he's sensing something unseen.
His pupil-less eyes shrink into slits.
And a new instinct takes hold:
Go home.
Not walk.
Not hide.
Go.
THE RUN HOME
He bolts out of the alley.
Not like a human.
More like something feral, sleek, predatory.
He leaps onto a dumpster—
Then onto the fire escape—
Then climbs the side of the building like the bricks are merely suggestions to his purpose.
Rooftops rush under his claws as he sprints across Gotham's skyline.
The moonlight gleams off his dark, sharpened form.
Below him, the city is alive:
Screams.
Honking.
Sirens.
Police lights painting the night in frantic reds and blues.
He barely hears any of it.
His heartbeat is a compass.
A pulse guiding him home.
He jumps a seven-meter alley gap, landing low like a predator on the hunt.
On the next rooftop, he hears it:
A muffled cry for help.
A woman shoved into a corner by two men with knives, clearly with unclean intentions.
Rex doesn't think— not that he can anyway, as he's being powered by pure instinct.
He drops behind them like a falling shadow.
One man turns— too slow to actually take any action apart from that.
"Wh—who—"
A clawed hand grabs his face and smashes it into the wall.
Bones crunch.
Blood sprays.
The second man swings his knife—
Rex disarms him with a flick.
The knife skitters across the roof.
The man runs.
Rex pounces, slamming him into the gravel, knocking the breath out of him in one brutal instant.
No killing blow this time.
Just instinctive violence.
The woman stares. Terrified.
Rex doesn't acknowledge her.
He's already leaping to the next rooftop, disappearing into the dark like a nightmare that refuses to be seen twice.
THE FINAL STRETCH
The last wall before his apartment is twelve stories high.
He scales it like a spider.
Hand.
Claw.
Grip.
Climb.
Those were the only thoughts on his already cloudy and feral mind.
Up and up until he reaches the window of his tiny studio.
He slips inside without a sound.
He collapses on the floor.
His body begins to shrink.
Claws retract.
Muscles lessen.
Breathing steadies.
Dark shaggs of hair covering his body reduce.
Bones return to their normal anatomy.
Veins dim.
Darkness pulls him under for a true rest.
A FEW HOURS LATER
Rex woke up with the worst headache of his life.
It felt like someone was striking the inside of his skull with a hammer wrapped in lightning.
His eyes squint open.
He's in his apartment.
On the floor.
Still wearing yesterday's clothes.
His phone is buzzing nonstop on the bedside table.
16 missed calls.
27 messages.
All from:
MR. HALE — STORE MANAGER
"Oh shit."– he says as his eyes fully widen.
He scrambles up, groaning at the pain in his ribs, and answers the phone.
"H-Hello—?"
"REX!" Mr. Hale barks. "You skipped the morning shift! Again!"
"I— I'm sorry," Rex stammers. "I didn't hear my phone. I— I wasn't feeling well—"
There's a pause.
Then a sigh.
"You're a good worker, kid. I'll let it slide. But get in ASAP."
Rex breathes out.
"Thank you. I'm on my way."
He throws on a hoodie, forces himself to look normal, and heads out.
His legs ache.
His arms ache.
His chest burns.
Everything hurts.
But he makes it to the convenience store.
THE NEWS
The store TV plays in the corner, tuned to Gotham City News.
Rex stocks shelves mechanically, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull—
Until he hears it.
"Breaking news regarding last night's homicide in Burnley."
His heart stops.
"Authorities discovered the mutilated body of a woman in an alleyway. Cause of death appears to be—"
Rex looks up.
The screen shows a blurred-out photo.
But he knows the alley.
He knows the silhouette.
He knows the body.
He recognized the shoes it wore.
His breath stutters.
The reporter continues:
"The crime scene shows signs of an attack by a non-human assailant. Police speculate possible metahuman involvement—"
Rex's vision tunnels.
Images flash like lightning:
Lena's scream.
His claw around her throat.
The slash.
The rooftops.
The burglars.
The running.
The hunger.
The instinct.
His knees go weak.
He grabs a shelf to keep himself upright, spilling the items on it in the process.
He killed her.
He killed her with his own hands.
No—
Not his hands.
His claws.
A cold realization pierces him:
If Gotham police find out—
If people find out—
If Batman finds out—
He's dead.
Not arrested.
Not imprisoned.
Dead.
Batman doesn't tolerate monsters.
Especially not ones that kill people in alleys.
Rex's heart pounds so loudly he thinks the whole store can hear it.
He's not just in the wrong world.
He's in Batman's city.
And Batman?
Batman is already hunting him.
Even if the Dark Knight doesn't know his name yet.
He's already a dead man walking.