Once blood starts flowing, it never stops. The neon signs were going dark across Gotham, one by one. Storefronts that had been open for decades were shuttering, owners boarding up windows with whatever scrap wood they could find. Graffiti sprayed over faded advertisements. Gang symbols and furious slogans replacing what used to be thriving businesses.
Black Mask wasn't just targeting Falcone, Maroni, or Thorne. He was hitting everyone. Anyone who controlled territory was getting a visit from his skull-masked psychos. They rolled through neighborhoods in modified vehicles, armed to the teeth, sweeping through like a plague of locusts. You had two choices: cooperate or die. And if you chose wrong, your family died too.
The calling cards were getting creative. Charred corpses hanging from lampposts. Mutilated remains stuffed into dumpsters. Bodies dumped in public places as warnings. It was terrorism. And it was working.
Marco sat in the passenger seat of the freshly repaired E350, watching the few pedestrians brave enough to be out hurry past with their heads down. The car was parked at the entrance to Robinson Park, roughly the dividing line between the East End and West Side.
"This guy's a complete lunatic," he muttered, watching an old woman shuffle past with a shopping bag clutched to her chest.
Those delicate power balances that used to keep Gotham's underworld functioning were being swallowed whole by maniacs with guns and gasoline. The whole system was collapsing, and Black Mask was dancing in the ashes.
The GCPD had issued a warrant for Roman Sionis, but it was worthless. Everyone knew the guy was holed up somewhere near the docks with an army of psychos and enough firepower to hold off a siege. But whether anyone had the balls to go arrest him was another question entirely.
Loeb's downfall was inevitable at this point, but he wanted to leave with some dignity intact. Most of the department's manpower was stationed around City Hall Plaza, making sure there wouldn't be a repeat of the chaos from days ago. Which meant patrol units like Marco and Darnell were stretched thin, covering territory with half the backup they needed.
Darnell yawned from the driver's seat, slouching against the door. "Things'll get better eventually. Falcone's got deep roots in this city. If three hundred lunatics were all it took to flip Gotham upside down, he would've been dead by now."
He grabbed a newspaper from the dashboard and tossed it to Marco.
"Look at this. Media doesn't even care about the gang war anymore."
Marco unfolded the paper. The headline screamed: "BAT-MAN VS. MAN-BAT: URBAN LEGENDS AND MIDNIGHT MONSTERS - WHO WINS?"
Below it was a grainy photograph, clearly taken from far away with a telephoto lens. Under a searchlight, a winged creature hovered in midair, dragging a rope. At the other end of that rope was a caped figure in black, dangling like a fish on a line.
He folded the paper and tossed it back. Bruce really was something else. The guy went out nearly every night, throwing himself off buildings and picking fights with freaks. That kind of stamina was inhuman. No wonder he'd become a walking, talking weapon.
Weapon...
He glanced over his shoulder at the backseat. Mounted on a custom rack was the rifle Cobblepot had sent over. It weighed nearly twenty kilos and fired rounds the size of his thumb. Each cartridge weighed close to two hundred grams. It was overkill for pretty much any situation a patrol officer would encounter, but in Gotham? You could never have too much firepower.
Just looking at it gave Marco a strange sense of confidence.
---
The rain fell harder as night settled over Gotham.
In a narrow alley off Kane Street, two of Black Mask's gunmen stood over a body, rain dripping from the brims of their skull masks. One of them lit a cigarette and took a drag.
"Toss it in the sewer. Don't leave it here to rot," he said, exhaling smoke.
The other gunman nodded without speaking. He was newer to the crew, still a little jumpy. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, bent down, grabbed the corpse by one ankle, and started dragging it deeper into the alley. The rain soaked through his clothes almost immediately, cold water running down his scalp. The lights in the alley had been smashed days ago. The farther he went, the darker it got, until he could barely see three meters in front of him. His breath came out in short puffs of mist. The body scraped and bumped over broken pavement, catching on bits of trash and debris. He had to yank it free a couple of times when the dead guy's jacket snagged on something.
This area had been "cleared" a week ago. Black Mask's crew had swept through, killed anyone who resisted, and left the rest too terrified to even look out their windows. It should've been safe. The alley turned at a right angle up ahead. A few broken wooden crates were stacked against the wall, giving off a smell like mildew. He stopped to catch his breath, wiping rain from his face.
That's when he heard it.
Creak... creak...
Like a wheel that needed oil. Or an axle straining under too much weight. The sound echoed off the alley walls, making it impossible to tell where it was coming from.
Then came the voice.
It was low and hoarse, barely more than a whisper, singing something that sounded like a nursery rhyme.
"Ugly faces make me sad,
Time to peel them, make them glad.
Shiny new masks, smooth and bright,
No more tears, no more fright.
Good dolls sit still, don't make a peep,
Bad dolls broken, thrown in deep..."
Creak... creak...
Closer now. Right around the corner, where the alley ended at a brick wall and a row of sewer maintenance hatches.
The gunman let go of the corpse's ankle. His hands moved automatically, sliding the rifle off his shoulder, flicking off the safety. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Beneath the skull mask, his eyes strained to see through the darkness, but there was nothing.
Creak... creak...
He could hear it clearly now, wheels rolling through puddles, water splashing. He pressed his back against the wet brick wall and edged forward, finger on the trigger. Maybe it was just some homeless guy. Some crazy old bastard pushing a shopping cart full of junk, singing to himself in the rain. That's all. Nothing to worry about.
Creak... creak...
The smell hit him.
Blood. Fresh blood.
He reached the corner and risked a glance around it.
The first thing he saw was the cart. It was huge, custom-built, probably welded together from scrap metal and old wagon parts. The surface was covered in dark stains. An old-fashioned oil lantern sat on top, spilling weak yellow light across the alley. And piled in the cart, stacked like cordwood, were limbs.
Standing next to the cart was a man. He was massive, easily over two meters tall, built like a linebacker. He wore a filthy leather apron that might've been white once but was now the color of old rust and dried viscera. Rubber gloves reached up past his elbows, dripping with something dark and wet.
And his head... Instead of a human face, he wore a crude stitched pig mask. The skin around the edges was inflamed, puckered with scar tissue. The pig's snout twitched as he breathed, and his eyes were bloodshot.
The pig-faced man was humming to himself, lifting a small bundle wrapped in netting from the cart. He sighed, almost sadly.
"Bad dolls broken, thrown in deep... smallest one, so fragile... couldn't even survive the anesthesia... such a waste..."
He bent over and dropped the bundle into an open sewer hatch.
Splash.
His head turned. Those bloodshot eyes locked onto the corner where the gunman was hiding.
The humming stopped.
The alley fell silent except for the rain and the gunman's heartbeat, pounding so loud he thought it might burst out of his chest. The pig-man tilted his head, studying him.
"Mm... a new doll?"
The gunman's finger twitched on the trigger.
BANG.
The shot went wide, tearing a hole in the brick wall inches from the pig-man's shoulder. Chips of brick exploded outward, clattering to the ground. Before he could adjust his aim, there was a flash of silver. The cleaver caught the lantern light for a split second before it swept down.
The gunman felt a cold sensation across his wrist.
Then he looked down and saw his hand, lying in a puddle at his feet, blood spraying from the stump of his wrist.
He tried to scream.
The cleaver came around again, faster this time, and took his head clean off his shoulders. His body stood for a moment, swaying, before collapsing into the filth. The pig-man looked down at the corpse, then at the severed head rolling to a stop against the wall. He made a disappointed clicking sound with his tongue.
"Another... flawed one..."
He bent down, picked up the head by its hair, and examined it, turning it this way and that in the lantern light.
"The bone structure is all wrong... and the eyes... no, no, this won't do at all..."
He sighed, tossed the head into the cart with the others, and started dragging the body toward the sewer hatch.
"So many bad dolls tonight... so much work still to do..."
---
Later that night, in the cave beneath Wayne Manor, Bruce sat on the edge of the medical table while Alfred worked on setting his arm. The break was clean, but it hurt like hell.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said, wrapping the cast, "you returned tonight with only two fractures. That's quite a significant improvement over last week."
He secured the cast and stepped back, examining his work. "I've also taken the liberty of informing several media outlets, anonymously, of course, that Mr. Wayne was engaged in a late-night rendezvous with a young woman, slipped in the hotel bathroom, and is now considering legal action against the establishment for negligence."
Bruce closed his eyes. "Alfred..."
"It's either that, or they start asking why you keep showing up in public with injuries that match the ones Batman receives in his nightly escapades." Alfred handed him a glass of water and a white pill. "Painkiller. Take it. I'll have Earl Grey and beef Wellington ready in thirty minutes."
"Thanks." Bruce swallowed the pill dry, then looked up at the butler. "Any word on the gang war? Black Mask's crew?"
"They're everywhere, sir. The West Side is particularly chaotic." Alfred began packing away the medical supplies. "However, Major Crimes is handling most of it. There's not much you can do when it's simply criminals killing each other."
"People are dying, Alfred."
"Yes, sir. They are. And you cannot save them all. You've done more than most would even attempt. Dr. Langstrom's wife has promised to keep him under control, which is a victory in itself. Now rest. You're no good to anyone dead."
Bruce nodded slowly. "One more thing. That wiretap on the East End captain. Anything useful?"
Alfred hesitated, which was unusual for him. "Well..."
"What?"
"Master Bruce, I would strongly advise discontinuing surveillance on Officer Vitale's communications."
"Why? Did he say something incriminating?"
"No, sir. Quite the opposite, in fact. There's been very little of intelligence value. However, the frequency of his profane language is simply far too high for productive monitoring. I've compiled a report. Would you like to review it?"
Bruce stared at him. "How bad is it?"
"In the past seventy-two hours, Officer Vitale has used variations of a certain four-letter word approximately two hundred and forty-seven times."