Week Ten

Blood’s Penthouse, Grand Ave, Gotham

In what was usually the peaceful and orderly penthouse of Jason Blood, there was now nothing but chaos and struggle. Priceless paintings were painted over with blood and many rare sculptures were cracked or destroyed.

In one corner of the living room, Dr. Kirk Langstrom hung from the ceiling in his Man-Bat form, his chest heaving in and out from exhaustion. In the opposite corner was an even larger, insectoid creature that could only make one sound in a raspy shriek.

“Charaxes!”

The two stared at each other, motionless, looking at the condition of each other’s body. Man-Bat was covered in bites that were now oozing with acidic spit; the insectoid man was covered in long gashes that had drawn murky blood. The only thing they had in common--- besides the pain they had inflicted on each other--- was a small black diamond that they held in their hands.

“Charaxes!” the insectoid shrieked. His wings came alive and began to buzz at hundreds of miles per hour, creating a small gale force in his wake. He lunged after Man-Bat, who clung to the ceiling and sprang forwards on his enemy. A few bites and slashes later, they both had new wounds to add to the others.

“This has gone on long enough,” Jason Blood called out. “Don’t you two think so?”

A small vacuum gripped the insectoid and threw it against the wall, while a ring of fire traced itself around it. Blood stepped out from his kitchen, his hands in the form of some arcane sigil. “Never forget how many people you are fighting,” he said. Walking through his destroyed home, he glanced at his ravaged art, and sighed. “Hob told me I should put these in storage. Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to wait a few more hundred years to collect the new priceless art-to-be.”

Dr. Langstrom, Man-Bat, limped over, still hurt, but could already feel himself healing because of the black diamond he still possessed. The insectoid had dropped its diamond in the middle of the floor. He put a hand to Blood’s shoulder, pointing a bloody claw at the insectoid on the wall. Blood looked the shrieking monster over for a moment, and then nodded. “You’re right. Something about him just doesn’t fit right. My formidable skills in demonology deal in the containment of fiends and the like, but something about him just doesn’t smell right. He must be like you, a mutation...”

Blood whispered something unintelligible, and soon a small fire burst from his finger tips. He put his hand on the creature’s chest, burning symbols into it, and then pressing his hand in hard. The ring of fire on the wall that had surrounded the creature burst out in a cloud, and then imploded back in on the creature. When the smoke cleared, a man was left naked, surrounded by a mist of buzzing moths that never strayed too far from him.

“Seems like our ‘Charaxes’ could use a can of Raid…” Blood remarked. “I have placed a temporary containment spell on your hideous form to save us a little trouble. I have also placed a command spell on you: meaning you will, as of this moment, answer every question I ask of you. First question: what is your name, and who are you?”

The man struggled, at first, and then his words came out, forced and choked. “I am Drury Walker. I am Cameron Van Cleer. I am the Killer Moth. I am Charaxes. And I’m going to be the person who guts you like a fish when I’m done with my duty.”

“For such a ‘killer’ you fail to realize that ‘Charaxes’ is a scientific name for butterflies. Now tell me more about your duty.”

“Gather more diamonds, indulge a hunger for mayhem…”

“And?”

“Cause darkness and destruction, to murder and maim, to allow my pestilence to spread over the world; you know, the small stuff.” Killer Moth said, smirking. “You know Englishman, when I break free of this hold, I’m going to have my wings so far up your—“

“You,” Blood said curtly, “will do nothing of the sort!” Blood kneeled down next to the smirking criminal, and whispered with an old, grim voice. “I’ve lived through the bloodiest wars, survived the end of the Black Plague, and killed hundreds of the vilest demons you’d ever dream of, centuries before anyone in your family ever carried the name ‘Walker’. You are literally an insect compared to me,” he said with a bitter air of superiority. “Now, tell me one more thing you lowly bug…is the diamond whispering any specific command to you?”

“Yes…to kill…”

“Kill who?”

“…”

Central America

Men in golden, hooded robes walked in unison towards one point in their temple ruins: an arena where one man stood covered in blood.

The group of men came together, and surrounded the man. The bloodied man kneeled before them. One of the hooded men stepped up, his face covered in shadows. His voice was clear and distinct, but also old and hoarse. His words echoed in the temple halls.

“In Europe, our rival faction is ready to face the darkness that is coming: the Order of St. Dumas has prepared their Angel of Death, and according to our spies, are ready to deploy him to face the coming chaos. When this darkness passes, destiny will pit him against us. This man,” he said, placing a hand on the shoulder of the grim and bloodied man before him, “has passed all twelve trials of Acolmiztli, survived the storms of Mextli, has destroyed six of the most horrific monsters of Mictlan, and has just passed the tournament of Tezcatlipoca using his physical and mental skills alone. He is now ready for the wisdom of Quetzalcoatl. Bring out the helmet of Quetzacoatl.”