#47: Death of a Different Sort (Underwood / ArtTeach)

Back in the Beginning…

It is a dark night. A pale moon fails to shine through the dense clouds of pollution, rising from a once-promising city. The sky casts a red shadow upon the tall stone buildings and concrete streets, cursing all who bury themselves beneath it. In the distance a storm cloud approaches, bringing with it a black rain to bathe the many alleyways in an unholy baptism. Lightning cracks, and the thunder echoes throughout the sky, warning of the impending doom. This is Gotham. The most dangerous city in the United States.

Down below, hundreds of men and women hurry inside, seeking refuge from the unforgiving rage that draws near. They think they are safe. They are wrong...



“Shut your windows and lock your doors, Gotham City! This is Jack Ryder, reporting live from--” the radio cuts out, the storm interferes with the station’s frequency “and our local weather experts advise extreme caution! Tonight’s storm will be the strongest in Gotham history since the Big Winds of 1867, and is expected to cause substantial damage to local--” the station again turns to static. A young hand reaches to the handheld radio, which rests on the black bed beside her, and turns the small knob. The GCPD communications frequency blares through the speaker, the girl hurriedly lowers the volume.

As she listens very carefully to the officers cooperatively planning and coordinating, the girl stands and moves around her room. Large, visually-disturbing candles slowly melt by the heat of calm flame. Many gothic posters are taped across the dark purple walls, and dozens of similarly-themed books lie opened and ripped on the carpeted floor.

“This is Car 27, update on call #19393. Corner of West and Ward. Suspects are down, requesting medical assistance.” The officer clicks out, awaiting response. It comes almost immediately.

“This is Dispatch. Requesting update: Bravo Alpha Tango Whiskey Alpha Tango Charlie Hotel*.” A moment of silence follows. The girl turns to the radio in anticipation. With a click, dispatch receives their update…



“Yeah… yeah it was him.” says the officer. The girl smiles.

She walks to the single window and looks past her reflection, to the city beyond. The storm draws near… she’s in for some entertainment.



Elsewhere…

The rain falls relentlessly upon the concrete road, washing away the blood of the past to make way for future sins. Through the misty uproar of the storm’s chorus, a pink neon light seeps through the air, brightening the darkest corners of Gotham. The neon sign displays the odd title of a long-closed soup kitchen, joined by a high-pitched buzz, “The Deacon’s Mission”. The kitchen once belonged to one ‘Deacon Blackfire’, a known con-man and cult leader, whose current whereabouts are unknown.

Inside, shadows engulf the building, the air tastes of urine, combined with the overwhelming odor of feces. Rats travel along the walls, feasting on what little of the moldy food remains. Suddenly and unexpectedly, the door swings open, and the pitter patter of rain swarms in. Lightning flashes, illuminating the shadowy demon that enters. Thunder soon follows. White eyes peer through the darkness, determined in their way.

The door shuts, and a deep, hollow breeze moves throughout the darkness. The demon steps forth. He is the Dark Knight. He is the Batman.

Following an invisible trail, the Dark Knight travels to the kitchen in the back. Various odors flood the once-lively room. The Batman does not falter, and persists further into the shadows. A freezer in the back draws his attention. He takes a moment to observe the large chrome door. It’s stained in all sorts of grime and dirt, but is otherwise well-preserved. His purple glove gently graces the surface. The door is cold, and condensation slowly leaks from the edges. A gentle hum can be heard from within.

The Batman takes a step back and grabs the handle, and violently tugs at it. With the first pull, the door flies open, and a white fog rolls out. The Dark Knight’s shadow is cast deep within. A sharp scent finds its way to the uninvited guest. It’s enough to bring a foul look to the Batman. Yet he persists…

From left to right, Batman discovers body after mutilated body. A few have passed the point of recognition. It’s a sore sight, but one he is tragically familiar with. On the farthest wall, there is yet another door. It is of poor construction, clearly an unofficial renovation, added after the kitchen’s closure. Batman impatiently kicks it down, desperate to catch his prey.

A series of rickety stairs lit by dozens of dim, yellow light bulbs presents itself to the famed vigilante; leading down, far below the kitchen. Deep, ritualistic moaning echoes up the stairs, yet the Dark Knight proceeds without fear.

A cold, stone flooring. The vigilante can feel it beneath his boots. Many dozens of torches light the makeshift church below the balcony on which he stands. The cult-chanting grows louder and louder, the nearer the Batman approaches the railing of the balcony. His eyes widen as he watches the horrific sight before him.

There must be a hundred or more men and women, lifting dim wax candles high above their heads. The chanting has become almost animalistic, as the cultists look forward to their leader, a man cloaked like his followers. A woman, dressed in a medieval gown with a tiara nested in her blonde hair, lies chained and unconscious on a sacrificial altar. The Batman backs into the darkness, focusing his vision and making good use of the opportunity to observe before taking action. This could be his only chance at learning more about this cult.

The leader looks to the crowd and raises his hand, the chanting’s volume has reached its peak. The leader basks in the glory of his followers, supporting his ego. Suddenly, the cloaked head of the cult raises his hand, instantly silencing the hundred before him. The man takes a moment to observe his followers, carefully inspecting each and every one of them. He smiles. With a unique sense of twisted pride, the man shouts with his powerful voice in a language foreign to Gotham. The Batman listens carefully, but his Romanian is rusty.

The speech lasts quite some time. The Batman doesn’t understand it all.

“<--Morningstar’s fiery light will shine upon us, Brothers and Sisters! Tonight’s ritual marks another step towards Gotham City’s reckoning!>*” A patch of unfamiliar words. The Dark Knight realises he may need to retread his teachings. “<The Children of the Blood shall reign superior, and as the world looks to us for salvation, we shall turn them to the light, and bring hope to the blinded!>”.



The leader reaches under his cloak, and the Dark Knight prepares himself for action. A sharp, clean blade glares as it slides out from the cloak, into the cult leader’s hand. He turns to his chosen sacrifice with a wide grin, raising the blade.

“<My friends, ready your goblets!>” the leader proclaims.

“Praise the Shadows! Praise the Blood” they cheer in response. They lift their goblets, thirsty for the warm blood. “Redemption in Death! Destiny in Scarlet!”

As the leader pulls back the blade, a sharp whistle cuts through the chanting. An oddly-shaped boomerang cracks against the back of the leader’s skull. The cultists gasp in surprise. A large shadow is cast upon the crowd, and the cultists spread. The vengeful demon lands in the center of the crowd with a graceful wind following behind. The followers stumble back, watching in horror. The Batman slowly rises above the many unfamiliar faces. For a long moment, they stand staring at the Dark Knight in confusion, not knowing what to do or say, until a good few of them gain their wits.

Several cultists begin to shuffle, as the rest depart the scene. The Batman turns his gaze to the men surrounding him. Four in total. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. The Batman hones his senses, and listens carefully to his foes.

They are breathing heavily, their fear is strong, yet their loyalty takes control. A chain rattles, as one of the men removes a large hook from his cloak. A sharp scraping, the second man removes two blades and instinctively clasps them together. A soft clink, the third man locks a pair of brass knuckles to his fingers. A crack, a pop. The fourth man clenches his fist, trusting his own strength. The Batman expects no trouble from him.

The fourth man roars, the Batman opens his eyes and turns to him, fists raised and ready. The man charges, and the Dark Knight immediately disposes of him with a single, swift motion. The third foe leaps from behind, raising his arm and lashing down, narrowly missing the vigilante with each swing. Batman catches the fist in his hand and squeezes with all his strength, cracking every bone in the man’s hand. The cultist screams in pain, and with swift mercy the Dark Knight strikes the cultist’s nose, rendering him useless to his cause.

Suddenly, two blades are driven into the Batman, one in each shoulder. He shouts in response, as the foe hangs on tightly to his back. The Dark Knight reaches back and throws the man through the air, into a large, aged bench. With difficulty, the vigilante removes the blades from his muscle, a splash of blood staining his costume. Chains rattle, as a large hook rips past the Dark Knight. Losing its momentum, the hook lands to the ground, and is pulled back to the thrower. The Batman stares menacingly at the final enemy of the night. The man swings the unpleasant hook round and round, gaining speed. Finally, the cultist releases the crude weapon, and the Dark Knight just as quickly ducks beneath it, grabs the chain and wraps it around his own forearm. With a tug, the cultist flies at the Dark Knight, colliding with the steady, gloved fist of Gotham’s infamous crusader.

Thunder cracks. It’s a cold night in Gotham.



Many hours later. Through the departing clouds a bright yellow sun shines upon the city of sins. It’s morning now, and the storm has left the city to recover, but not without leaving its mark. Only a few cars move through the streets of Gotham, passing the many scattered citizens assessing the damage done to their homes. A 1989 Cadillac, dented, stained, and scratched, slowly rolls down a long road.

Detective Harvey Bullock sits at the wheel, angrily chomping on a toothpick. His partner, James Gordon, sits in the passenger seat beside him, tightly gripping an open newspaper. Gordon carefully focuses on the article in front of him, ‘The Batman vs The Children of the Blood: Caped Crusader takes on Local Cult?’ He laughs to himself. ‘Caped Crusader’, it has a ring to it. The news broke quickly, but the GCPD never released details pertaining to the famous vigilante. The information leaked through a popular internet source, a blog called “Bluebird”, a site focused on vigilante activity in Gotham. Particularly on ‘Bat’ related matters . How the site gets the information, no one really knows.

“Let me guess… Bat news?” questions Harvey.

“Heh. Do I even need to answer?” answers Jim.

“ S’ppose not. What they got this time? More of that ‘Bluebird’ crap?”

“Yeah. They know about the cult-bust last night. City Hall denied the report, of course.”

“What the hell’s the use? The public may be stupid but they know when a winged freak is creepin’ in the back alleys, leapin’ over rooftops. May as well come out with it.”

Gordon throws down the paper and motions to the radio. Dialing through the stations, the detective finally finds the local news.

“-- tonight, the Wayne Foundation will be hosting the Annual GCPD Charity Ball, where Mayor Kane will be releasing a statement on the kidnapping of Barbara Schultz, who was taken last night during the storm.”

“Hope you got your tux ready,” Harvey says with a chuckle.



Wayne Manor. A once-proud, lively estate, now demoted to a lonely ruin, housing ghosts long passed. The morning light shines down upon the mansion, creating an illusion of solace.

Alfred Pennyworth, a tall, slender figure, rips open the velvet drapes of the master bedroom, unleashing the sunlight. “Good morning, Master Bruce. You have a long day ahead of you, and I’ve taken the liberty of--”, he turns to the bed with an optimistic smile, and frowns as he discovers the absence of his master.



Darkness shrouds the monumental cave, hiding the shadowy creatures of the night. The small predators squeak and screech, communicating with one another, seeking asylum in the shadows. Somewhere, an essence of light seeps through the darkness, disturbing the slumber of the bats. A swarm surrounds Bruce Wayne, who lightly clings to the cave wall. They soon disperse, and the billionaire adjusts the flashlight he carries in his teeth. There’s a small tunnel, running deep into the rocky structure. Perhaps he can run a power line through it? This process is more complicated than Bruce imagined. Doing the work himself is going to be tedious.

“Master Bruce? Master Bruce?!” Alfred calls. Bruce looks up, realising he has left his loyal butler alone.

“Good morning, Alfred.” Bruce says as he pulls himself up from the rocky cliff. “I trust that you had a good night’s rest?”

“I was about to ask the same of you, but…” Alfred notes the bandages around Bruce’s shoulders, “...I believe I already know the answer.”

“Sorry, Alfred. I had a lead on the Portia Finger kidnapping, managed to get some of the cultists in the process.” Bruce explains.

“... I see. Very good, Master Bruce.” Alfred says. “I see you’ve found a new doctor as well. I don’t suppose he would mind covering cleaning duties around the manor, in my place?” asks the butler, with a hint of a smile.

“Funny. I didn’t want to wake you, so I patched myself.” Bruce moves towards the staircase, removing his jacket and handing it to Alfred.

“And you did a sloppy job at that. I wouldn’t be surprised should the wounds reopen.” Alfred almost displays pride in his work, but realises his improper attitude. Something he has been hoping to work on. Bruce however enjoys the banter, but would never admit it.

“I wasn’t aware you were willing to be a field-doctor, Alfred. You’ll need a mask, and a name.”

“Alfred Pennyworth would serve well, Master Bruce.”

The two reach the top of the rocky staircase, coming to a large, iron door. Bruce detaches several locks and lifts a steel bar. Finally dealing with the troublesome barricades, Bruce swings open the large door, disguised by a grandfather clock on the opposite side. “We’ll have to find ways to improve the entrance…” Alfred moans.

Closing the clock entrance behind them, Bruce looks beyond the tall window of his father’s study towards the city of Gotham. It’s a beautiful sight, but his mind cannot forget the pain of… Alfred draws back Bruce’s attention.

“Sir, I’d like to remind you that your company will be hosting the annual Police Department Charity Ball tonight, and I believe it would be appropriate for Bruce Wayne to make an appearance.

“You know I can’t Alfred. Bats prefer the night time.”

With a sense of disappointment, Alfred replies, “Sir, I believe it may do you some good to take a night off from your vigilante duties, to tend to your life as Bruce Wayne.”

The billionaire pauses, rethinking his decision. His butler has made a considerably-substantial point. He must keep up appearances among the lively civilians of Gotham as Bruce Wayne. Bruce turns to his loyal, trusted friend with an answer.



City Hall. That night. Jim Gordon has always hated large gatherings. It makes his job as an officer all the more difficult, too much to contemplate. But he’s a detective, he has to work his way through it. Put on a smile, laugh at some bad jokes, and the police department will gain from it. Maybe even rid the city of corruption. Gordon tries to hold on to that hope, that someday Gotham’s reputation may be as clean as Metropolis’s.

Gordon fades through the crowds, keeping a sharp eye on suspicious activity. But nothing. Only rich playboys and snobby rich folks. A bright chandelier highlights the room, glaring against hundreds of wine glasses, and reflecting through the detective’s glasses. Gordon removes the eyewear in response, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to recover from the blinding lights.

“Hey Jim, having a good time?” Harvey belches, patting Gordon’s shoulder. Gordon nearly loses his glasses to the crowd, but catches them just in time. Bullock gulps down his drink, like a thirsty gorilla stranded in the desert. The all too familiar view doesn’t fail to disgust Gordon.

“Not particularly, Harvey. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Hey, free drinks, classy food, and some good-looking broads. How can I not?” Harvey laughs.

“Speaking of which…” the detective says, spotting a beautiful young woman. Gordon smiles and pats Harvey’s back. “Good luck, partner.” Bullock trails off into the crowd, keeping his eye on the target.

“I see your partner is having a good time.” Jim turns to find a familiar face. Bruce Wayne smiles, glad to see his old friend.

“Bruce Wayne. How long has it been?” Gordon replies politely. The detective has always found the Waynes to be a kind family. The two shake hands, continuing a lengthy friendship.

“Too long, Jim. How’s the family doing?”

“They’re doing well, thanks for asking. Alfred?”

“Old, but alive.” Bruce jokes, Gordon chuckles in response. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself, I hoped to give the men in blue a good time.”

“I am Mr. Wayne, thank you. I must admit, I almost didn’t come, but the wife insisted I take the night off.”

“Wise woman. I’m sure you’ve been eager to take your mind off of cults and evil organizations.” Bruce says with a smirk.

“You’d be right. It’s nice to stray from masked men every once in a while.”

“That wouldn’t be a reference to that ‘Bat-Man’ fellow I’ve been hearing so much about? And here I thought that was a result of media imagination.”

“Between you and me? He---” Gordon stops mid-sentence, as he feels a slight buzz against his chest. “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne.” Bruce nods as Gordon leaves for the outer hall.



Park Row. A meek apartment building.

The room is damp and moldy; dust floats through the air, cloaking the furniture and walls. Detective Jim Gordon is immediately repulsed, wishing to remove himself as soon as possible. But to his dismay, he has a job to do. The corpse lies before him, resting gently in a slightly-ripped chair, decomposed beyond recognition.

A shadow moves behind the detective, not to his surprise.

“You got here quick. I’m impressed,” Gordon says in a low tone.

“The victim. What do we know?” says the Batman, approaching the corpse.

“Judging by the decomposure, the victim must have been dead for several months. She was found only an hour ago. The building is due for demolition next month, and the landlord is supposed to be making daily run throughs, get the residents all moved out.”

“Assuming the landlord was here yesterday, the body must have been moved here...”

The Batman kneels down beside the body and observes the fingers. No fingerprints to check. Only hope is the teeth. The Dark Knight reaches for his flashlight, opening one of the compartments of his belt.

“Most likely, yes. We’ve taken a skin sample off of the victim’s left hand, and hopefully we can identify the victim and notify any relatives.”

The Batman opens the victim’s jaw, taking a look at the back molars and working his way to the front. Then he realizes…

“That won’t be necessary…” the Batman stands and turns to Gordon as he removes a ring from the victim’s right finger. “Look at the inscription.” Gordon does as instructed.

“... Barbara Schultz?”

“As soon as I heard of her abduction, I took a look at her files. Dental records included. The wedding ring is a perfect mirror of her late husband’s, but I had to be sure. Her teeth match with the records perfectly. It’s her.”

“But that’s impossible, she’s--”

“You said she has been decomposing for months… but this woman has been dead for less than twenty-four hours.” The Batman turns to the body, contemplating the possibilities.



Darkness surrounds the young girl, a blue glow emanates from the laptop on her desk. She’s cold, but it doesn’t matter to her. She’s much too busy to care for such trivial matters. Much like the vigilante she admires, the girl is quite fond of the night time. She listens carefully to the radio on her desk, the officers of the GCPD have been informed of Barbara Schultz’s current condition, ignoring the details of the Batman’s involvement. But she knows. She always knows.

Like lightning, the girl taps on her keyboard violently, in a determined fashion.

‘-- the body was soon identified by Detective James Gordon of the GCPD as the recently abducted Barbara Schultz. Despite a recent passing, the body has decomposed far from recognition, and the case has shifted from a kidnapping to a weird sci-fi murder mystery. Like many of you Gothamites, I have plenty of questions to ask. Sorry to say that I’ve got no answers. Hopefully the GCPD will come clean and tell us what we, as the citizens of Gotham, deserve to know. And maybe they can get their butts moving and solve this case faster than the Batman for once. Take initiative guys! DO what you are PAID to do!

Sincerely yours,

-BLUEBIRD’