Hearts of Darkness

Chapter Two - Violent Hill

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of fictional characters that do not belong to me.

As rain beat against the glass to the penthouse, Alfred wondered how many times he had done this - stood, waiting patiently for Master Wayne to return home. Calm on the surface, but inside he kept forcing himself to breath slow, deep breaths.

One would think he would have been used to this by now.

But he wasn't. He never would be. He knew back when Master Bruce was but a squirming, food-projecting imp he would never be able to stop worrying about him, especially when he put himself in harms way willingly.

Alfred let out another sigh (he had lost track of how many times he had done that this night alone).

After seeing the news on the television about what had happened to Commissioner Gordon, Bruce had been frozen to the chair where he had sat, the color draining out of him. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Alfred had gently touched his shoulder, not sure if Master Bruce would react violently at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts or not react at all. The latter was the one that always worried Alfred. He had jumped, looked at Alfred and then bolted out of the door without a word. The look in his eyes had been...disturbing. Alfred had seen that look before but it had never frightened him, he knew better than that.

He knew that for all his faults, and Master Bruce had them (he was not an "immaculate" being by any means), he was a good man. A brave man - if but a bit foolhardy at times.

If anything, his heart was too loving, too giving. To this city, to its people. Looking out on Gotham as the rain continued to pour, lightening flashing occasionally, Alfred came to that conclusion.

This city, its people, would break him if he let it.

He was already too emotionally invested in it because of the fate that befell his parents. Even though he told Alfred time and again it wasn't vengeance, both of them knew that that was the reason behind it. It had always been a driving force in the young man's life ever since it happened (for better or worse).

It was a blow to the heart that had never healed - would never heal.

Master Bruce was smart and could detach himself from most of what he did as the Batman; it was a symbol, it was not him. There were times when Alfred thought it was his fears, anger and mourning personified - that this was the only way to make meaning of it all. To make his parent's deaths mean something...

But sometimes, Alfred wondered just how much he could continue to detach himself from what happened to people. More to the point, the people he cared for and held close, even if they didn't know it. Whether as Batman or Bruce, the pain was felt and it was relentless. To both.

He couldn't say he approved of Master Bruce's - or the Batman's - relationship with Jim Gordon. But it wasn't something that was fickle, or an act like with the many "women" Bruce would let hang onto his arms. This was something that Master Bruce and the Bat felt deeply - almost like a connecting thread. A strong, true force that the young man could depend on when so much else seemed intangible.

Alfred dared to say it was love. Whether it was one-sided or mutual, he wasn't sure of.

He knew Gordon was married - used to be - and that he was a loyal man to those he felt deserved it. Master Bruce may have been waging war on the evil that infested Gotham, but Gordon must have been at war with himself continuously. Divided loyalties (and possibly love) between wife and family and the savior of Gotham. The one who had given him hope.

But the last time Alfred had seen the Commissioner, he had looked worn and in some sense defeated...And now this vicious attack...

Now, more than ever, Alfred feared not just for Master Bruce's safety - he feared for his sanity. He feared for his heart.

There were only so many blows both could take. The physical scars always healed with time but these other ones...they were wounds to the young man that would fester and eventually consume him.

If he wasn't completely broken first.

The rain only poured harder. Alfred sighed again - this time trying to ease the weight he felt in his chest. He would come back soon...He would. He always did.

Alfred had to believe that.

He had to. Even if no one else did. Even if Master Bruce didn't. Alfred always would.

Because that is what was needed. That is what he needed; that little child Alfred had comforted on so many nights like tonight.

Alfred would always see Bruce like that - Batman or not. And he hoped that if he had instilled anything in the boy since his birth it was to never give up, to always keep going.

His father had said it best but Alfred still liked to remind him. Because all they really had was each other...

That was why Alfred had been standing there at the window for four hours. And he would stand there for another four hours if he had to, lost in thoughts and memories that never went entirely away.

But all they really did was bring pain of days long past that could never return. For the moment, though, they served to distract Alfred from the pain of the thought of that young man never coming back.

Mayor Anthony Garcia had hardly had a decent night's rest in weeks. All of the makeup in the world couldn't hide that.

He had made statement after statement assuring the people of Gotham City that all was being done to capture the Batman, that all was being done to catch the other criminals of Gotham and then this attack on Gordon! Hell, even his family, who had moved outside of Gotham, had turned up dead.

As if he didn't have enough on his plate, the cameras had to be there when the police brought out the bullet-riddled body of Gotham's Police Commissioner and it was all over the news in a matter of hours. Now he was getting calls about how several neighborhoods had random dead bodies mutilated in the streets, on top of cars and accounts of a crazed person in black and white make-up. A wanna-be Joker of sorts.

Other scenes of death had had puzzles strewn around them...Heads nearly sliced off...

This couldn't possibly be the work of Batman, could it?

He had rubbed his temples again, he had bruises there for rubbing them countless times in the past few days. It had become second nature.

He was at home now but it felt as if he had never left his office. He was sitting on his bed, in his pajamas and he was still getting calls about Gordon, new "ritual" killings in the streets and eyewitness accounts to the Batman's "new allies".

He almost wanted to pull his hair out but he knew that would only lead to several more phone calls about how his ratings went down even more because he was bald. He put his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes.

The phone beside his bed rang for the - his last count had been fifty-three - time that night. He let out a groan-filled sigh and picked up the receiver, "Yes?" in a voice that made him sound far older than he was.

"Is this Mayor Garcia of Gotham?" the voice sounded mannered, composed. Very different from all the rough, frantic voices he had been hearing all night.

"Yes, it is. May I ask who is calling?"

"You do not know me, sir, but you may be familiar with my name; I am Jeremiah Arkham. My grandfather, Amadeus Arkham, established Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane many years ago in Gotham."

Garcia's eyes widened a little, his heart rate going a little faster, "Yes, I am very familiar with that name..." Oh God, please don't let this be about some massive breakout from Arkham - again! Not now, not now.

"I wanted to apologize for the less than efficient performance the institution has offered thus far. I have not been to the asylum for quite some time and have been away on business here in Europe. I thought I had left it in capable hands but, as you must know by now, that has not been the case. I again apologize for that."

Garcia had been so relieved that this wasn't another crisis that all he could do was respond dumbly as he slowly felt the pressure ease off of his stomach.

"Aw, that's fine."

The voice on the other line sounded a bit affronted that the Mayor seemed to be taking this less seriously than he would have liked, "I can assure you, sir, it is not fine. And I also assure you that once I return to Gotham any lax attitudes about the asylum will be eliminated."

"Oh - I didn't mean to give you that impression, Mr. Arkham, truly. I am very concerned about the state of Arkham Asylum but at the current moment we have quite a few...situations here that require more immediate attention." Garcia tried to smooth feathers he had ruffled.

"Yes, I heard about your Commissioner. And your DA. And about your vigilante with an apparent rodent fetish. And the countless casualties his private war has cost Gotham. And all individuals he has inspired with his rash behavior." The tone was cold enough to almost make Garcia shiver.

"Mayor, when individual citizens gain that much power and are obviously unstable, what do you think that says about those who are suppose to be in charge of the city?"

Mayor Garcia was silent. There was nothing he could say that would justify the foolish decisions he had made.

"It says those who have been entrusted with the life of the city are not doing their job. That this is a city that has become over-run by fear, by insanity. There is no order, there is no faith in order. That is what it says. If you continue down the path you are on, Mayor, Gotham will surely fall into anarchy and it will take something very drastic to bring it back out. And I already think you know what that would mean..."

The weight was back on the Mayor's stomach, almost as if it had never left.

"But not all is lost, which is why I am coming back to Gotham. I will take charge of my grandfather's asylum and make certain that order is brought back to Gotham, even if that means making a few...adjustments to the establishment and even to the law itself. For that is what we want, isn't it Mayor? For order to be restored to Gotham?"

"Y-Yes. It is."

"Good. I shall take that as a sign that I will have your full cooperation when I arrive. Something needs to be done, Mayor, and I can assure you I will bring that about. By any means necessary."

All Garcia could do was nod as the other line hung up. Then he realized he wasn't nodding anymore, he was shaking.

He wondered what the hell he was getting himself into now...

Hospices were abnormally quite places, especially at night.

But this particular one was quite for more gruesome reasons...

All of the patients were dead - so were any family members who were staying overnight with them.

The machines and monitors had been turned off. The electricity had been cut off . They all generated heat.

So did blood. That was the only heat he cared about seeing.

And he did see it with his infrared goggles. They glowed a bright red color when turned on and were the only tangible bits of light in the darkness of the building.

There were the lights outside but the rain made it darker around the windows. So even they were of no comfort when it came to escaping the darkness. Their flashlights had all gone missing.

The hospice staff had hidden themselves as best they could but he found them. He always found them.

Either one by one or huddled together in a group. They couldn’t hide from him for very long.

They tried the exists - all were locked and wouldn’t open, even with the keys.

Windows - the security bars remained because without power they couldn’t be lifted back up. (No one dare break any glass, it would only lead him to them faster...)

Phoning the police - the lines had been cut.

Cell phones - he always managed to get to them before they could finish the call.

They were going to die. They were trapped in this darkness with no way out. All some could do was scream as they saw the glowing red “eyes” come closer.

One doctor managed to get away with a cell phone. He turned the volume down as he neared a row of windows. He couldn’t stop shaking, the sweat pouring down his face. How did he keep finding them? Was he using night vision? Did he know the hospice layout that well?

He was still waiting to get through to the police (ever since Batman was declared an enemy of Gotham the lines were always busy) when two other people ran around the corner. The two nurses were out of breath and whispering feverishly, overlapping each other:

“He’s coming!”

“Where is he?!”

“Monster! Goddamn monster!”

“Are the police coming?!”

The doctor held up a finger to quite them when a voice out of the darkness answered the question calmly, “No.”

A high pitched electrical whine went off as two red orbs appeared behind the doctor.

The two nurses screamed, the doctor was paralyzed, phone still to his ear.

It all happened so fast...But in the light that came from the outside made the bloodshed horribly real.

The man slashed the back of the doctor’s knees with a meat hook, making him fall to the floor with a scream, dropping the phone.

He fired his harpoon gun at the nurse running away. It went right through her chest - the force behind it pushing her body to the far wall. Her body sagged but remained pinned to the wall.

The other nurse tried to go in the opposite direction, but he was too fast.

He turned, switching the meat hook from one hand to the other, the harpoon gun forgotten as it dropped to the floor.

He tore open her stomach, then her throat, silencing her screams. Blood gushed out of her as her body fell to the floor with a wet thud.

Her mouth was still moving but no sound was heard. Her eyes wide with shock and fear - she was dead...dying and she couldn’t stop it...

The doctor was frozen on the floor - in pain but he couldn’t find his voice. He could barely breathe. The smell of blood was everywhere now. The walls were covered with it. His co-workers’ blood covered the once white walls.

He saw the “monster” - the one that had chased them all though the dark...A walking ghost...Or an angel of death...

His skin...it was white, whiter than the walls had been. Almost translucent, the doctor was certain he could see the veins underneath and that it wasn’t a trick of light from the rain on the windows.

His head was shaved, random scars along his temple and skull. It seemed as if he had no eyebrows but that was only because his hair had as little pigment as his skin did.

Only his neck and head could be seen - the rest of his body was covered, as were his eyes. Long grey trench coat, black rubber boots and gloves. He were several layers of clothes underneath the coat, including something with a hood.

His eyes were covered with the infrared goggles he had designed - the battery attached to the strap around his head. There were burn marks against his ashen skin.

He didn’t seem to mind it, though, as he picked up his harpoon gun and attached it to the belt underneath the trench coat. He started to calmly wipe off the hook, bits of flesh hanging on it.

The goggles still emitted that red, red glow...

“Please...stop this. If it is about your condition...,” the doctor pleaded weakly, he knew he was next but if he could just get through to this man...He had paused in cleaning his tool when the word “condition” was said.

“We can help you - we can do...surgery so your...Albinism isn’t so severe...”

The man resumed cleaning his hook, although with more swiftness than before. When he was done he said without looking at the doctor, “You think that I am doing this...because of my condition?”

His head turned slowly to look at the doctor on the floor. The doctor was now wishing he hadn’t said anything.

He came closer to the doctor, standing over him, the red orbs never leaving the doctor’s face, “That would be the most obvious answer, wouldn’t it? That would seem the most true because you are all normal and I am not, thus I must hate all normal people and that justifies me killing them out of bitterness. My being different is reason enough. But, I'm sorry to disappoint you....,”

He bent down and grabbed the doctor by the throat and lifted him up using strength that surprised the other man. The doctor couldn’t do anything, his arms were heavy as lead at his side, his legs useless with the ligaments torn as they were. All he could do was listen as he kept slowly losing blood.

“I am bitter toward you all, but for a different reason - you can walk out into the sun and people don't stare at you and yet you still criticize the way you look or the way other people do. You are able to walk out into the sun and yet you help no one who needs your help. You are all useless. You are all so self-centered, thinking it is all about you. That it is always about you. But despite that, that is not the reason I am doing this.” He let go of the doctor’s throat, watching as he dropped to the floor, crying out as his legs became more damaged from the pressure and hitting his head on the floor, nearly splitting it open.

“I want everyone else to be as cold as I am. I feel no warmth”, he let out a strained laugh, “ I have five layers of clothes on and I am still cold. I am empty. I want others to be that way. They don't deserve warmth if all they can do is think about themselves while they let others die. You don't deserve life if you can't think of other lives, think of helping them when they need it. Not when it is convenient for you, doctor.”

“But...but why a hospice?,” he couldn’t help but ask, people were already dying, this living apparition was nothing more than a hypocrite...

“Because it is nothing but a mockery to those you refused to help in time. You are doing nothing but rubbing it in their faces that they are dying and that “there was no way” to save them. It’s disgusting”.

He brought the hook closer to the doctor’s face, as he crouched down beside him, “And, it’s too much like a hospital; hospitals have never helped me - they have never been of any real use...I mean, if they can’t help someone like me how can they possibly help someone who is like you with any real competence? Someone is either not doing their job or the whole system has failed...I choose to blame the system...and all the people associated with it.”

He put the end of the hook into one of the doctor’s nostrils, “The Egyptians used to use hooks to pick out the brain - piece by piece...,” The doctor tried to calm his shaking but couldn’t. “Oh, God...,” he whimpered, tears unwillingly filling his eyes. He didn’t want it to end this way.

“But I’m not going to do that to you,” he moved the hook away from the other man’s face.

“I will do this instead,” he shoved the hook into the other man’s naval and opened him up to his chest plate.

The screams echoed. They fell on deaf and dead ears.

The blood burst forth from some arteries while most of it just flowed out to the floor, pooling around the man still crouched down near the doctor.

He leaned in closer to the doctor’s ear while the other man went into shock and whispered, “How does it feel to have the blood leave you this way? Do you feel cold as the heat pours out of you? Do you feel emptiness creeping up as your soul slips out of your body? This way of dying...so long and drawn out...You feel the cold setting in, you know your life is going to be over, that you will be able to not feel anything anymore...”

He stood up, still looking down at the doctor, no longer shaking.

“If only I was so fortunate.”

As he left the hospice - after turning the lights back on so whoever comes by later will see exactly why it’s so quite - he turned off his goggles and pulled them off after pulling his hood over his head. He hated the rain but at least it would clean the meat hook he was still carrying.

His eyes were pink, almost bordering on red if there was little to no light around him.

He squinted as his sensitive eyes took in the city around him - lightening flashed overhead.

“Gotham is a soulless city. It deserves to be cold. It deserves to die.”