Four days. Four days and no message from Nightwing. Nothing. Bruce drummed his fingers on the table. He was nervous. He hadn’t heard from Nightwing ever since he left him on the roof of Wayne Tower. Was he still alive?
“Master Bruce, I think it’s time you left,” Alfred suggested.
“Left?” Bruce asked.
“For the funeral,” Alfred nodded.
“Right,” Bruce nodded. The funeral for Barbara Gordon. The Batgirl.
Bruce stood up, and ran his hands down his black suit. He sighed, and walked out to his car. He drove off.
Alfred stood in the doorway, and shook his head. He always worried this day would come. The day when Batman was not enough. The day when someone would die. Someone close to Bruce.
In his car, Bruce drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He glanced at his phone, and saw a text from Oswald. He opened the text, while still driving.
IN RECOVERY NOW. EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE IT’LL HEAL.
A shimmer of hope in the dark times. Bruce put his phone down, and continued to the funeral home. When he pulled up, he saw Jim Gordon leaning against the building with a cigar between his teeth. He turned when he saw Bruce.
“What brings Bruce Wayne to my daughter’s funeral?” Jim Gordon asked. The light Bruce had once seen in Jim’s eyes was gone.
“I’ve tried to visit as many funerals for the victims in the attack. The Nobodies were going after me. I feel partially responsible.”
“Ah, you’re not responsible,” Jim waved away Bruce, dismissively, “You couldn’t control the Nobodies. But Barbara didn’t have to die. It’s all Batman’s fault.”
“Batman’s fault?” Bruce asked.
“After she died, I learned Barbara was the Batgirl. If Batman hadn’t dragged her into his crazy crusade, she would be alive.”
“Oh. Well, if it’s any consolation, we at Wayne Tech are designing a new camera software system to help track and catch Batman,” Bruce said. That was a lie.
“The sooner we get that lunatic, the better,” Jim nodded.
“I agree.”
“Thank you for stopping by, Mister Wayne,” Jim said.
Bruce shook his hand, and walked inside the funeral home. Only Barbara’s arm was still intact when clean up crews found her remains. It had taken a DNA test to confirm it was indeed Barbara. Jim had had her arm cremated, and it was in a small box. Bruce walked up to the small box, and put his hand on it.
“I’m so sorry,” Bruce sighed.
“Sorry for what? It was her dumbass decision to become an off-brand Batman. All those costumed freaks are out of their minds.”
Bruce turned to see a boy who looked to be about seventeen. He had the same dull orange hair as Barbara. James Gordon Jr. Or J.J. as he was called by football teammates.
“Dad is just as bad. He’s got a soft spot for the criminally insane. As long as they have Bat in the name. I mean, come on. Batman’s just as bad as the Joker was.”
“The Batman caught the Joker,” Bruce said, annoyed that Barbara’s own brother was causing a disturbance before her funeral.
“But they’re just two sides of the same coin,” J.J. said, “They belong in the same cell at Arkham. Luckily, my dad is coming down hard on Bat-freak. He’s done working with that lunatic.”
Bruce looked back at the box of ashes. This was not what he needed to hear. Barbara was dead, Oswald was in the hospital, and Jim Gordon was cutting ties with him.
“Well that’s good,” Bruce said, forcing a smile. J.J. nodded, and walked away. Bruce coughed, uncomfortably. It was time for him to leave. He walked to the door, and saw Jim walking in.
“Again, I’m so sorry about what happened,” Bruce said, “It’s a tragedy.”
Jim just nodded.
Bruce made it out to his car, and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned on the ignition, and began to back out of his parking spot. Then, he noticed someone in the seat next to him. He had been too distraught, thinking about Barbara, to notice it before. It was a woman. She was very stocky, had dark skin, and straight, black hair.
“Twenty-three seconds,” the woman sighed, “I expected more from the Batman.”
Bruce slammed on his brakes, and looked at her, bewildered, “What did you just say? And who the hell are you?”
“Amanda Waller,” the woman said, “And I already know who you are. Bruce Wayne. Or Batman. Which one do you prefer.”
“Bru-”
“Never mind, I don’t care,” Amanda said.
“Do you want to explain what you’re doing sitting creepily in my car?” Bruce asked.
“I don’t have to. Keep driving.”
“And why would I do that Ms. Waller?” Bruce asked.
“That’s Commander Waller,” Amanda corrected, then pulled a gun from out of her black pantsuit, “And you’ll drive because I told you to.”
“Right,” Bruce nodded, “Where to, Commander Waller?”
“Wayne Manor.”
Bruce started driving towards home. Amanda casually glanced out the window, while still aiming her pistol at Bruce.
“Nice city,” Amanda mused.
“You should see it from my perspective…” Bruce said, “Not so pretty then.”
“Whose perspective? Batman’s or Bruce’s?” Amanda asked.
“Both,” Bruce admitted. Amanda knew about his crusade already. And he knew she wasn’t bluffing. He picked up on that quickly.
“Oh really? What’s so awful about this city to Bruce Wayne?”
“I mean, I’m always trying to help this city, but then it tears itself apart again. Then Batman has to clean up, and we start the process over again.”
Amanda pressed her lips together, and nodded, silently. The rest of the car ride was spent in silence. About thirty minutes later, they pulled up the long driveway leading to Wayne Manor.
“So, Commander Waller, what do you need from me here?” Bruce asked.
“I just needed the public to think all was well with Bruce Wayne,” Amanda said.
“What do you-?”
Bruce felt the pistol smack across the back of his head. He got back up, wondering if Amanda actually thought hitting him would the trick. He was the Batman. She aimed the pistol at him, and told him not to move. Bruce adjusted his watch, and Amanda glared at him, suspecting something. Bruce kicked his foot out, and a Batarang shot out of the toe, flying towards Amanda. Amanda ducked, and dove at Bruce’s legs, taking him down. She then repeatedly beat him across the face with her pistol. Bruce blacked out.
When Bruce woke up, he was chained to a chair. In front of him was a table with Amanda Waller sitting across from him.
“I’m glad that you cooperated with me Mister Wayne,” Amanda smiled.
“What do you want?” Bruce asked. He could feel hardened blood all over his face. He could taste it in his mouth as well.
“I want Batman’s help,” Amanda said.
“And you decided that simply asking without beating me up was too difficult?” Bruce spat.
“Well, I had a feeling you wouldn’t necessarily be on board with my request,” Amanda said.
“And what is that?”
“I need you to rescue an assassin,” Amanda said.
“An assassin? What organization are you a commander of?” Bruce asked.
“That’s strictly confidential,” Amanda said, slapping a file on the table, “Now listen up. An operative of mine was undercover in a drug cartel up in Greenland. The Church. Things went south, and he was captured. You’ll be dropped off near the location that we have pinpointed as the most likely place that he is being held. Break in, rescue the operative, and bring down the Brotherhood.”
“What makes you think I’ll do this?” Bruce asked. Amanda smiled, and pointed to the chains holding him. Bruce smiled right back, and stood up. The chains fell to his ankles.
“Impressive,” Amanda admitted, “But I have four heavily armed guards outside this door who wouldn’t hesitate to fill your body with bullets. So sit back down.”
Bruce lowered himself back into his seat.
“There is a bright side to this mission, Mister Wayne,” Amanda said.
“What’s that?” Bruce asked.
“We’ve monitored your search history in the Batcave,” Amanda said. Bruce looked down, embarrassed at some of the stuff that was on there.
“We’re not worried about your… habits,” Amanda said, “What we’re interested in is your searches for File 1939.”
“The stolen file,” Bruce said.
“That would be correct,” Amanda nodded.
“You have access to this file?”
“We have access to every electronic file ever since the dawn of time,” Amanda said smugly.
“I’ll do it,” Bruce said.
“Good. You didn’t really have a choice.”
“If I had to do it anyways, why did you offer up an incentive?” Bruce asked.
“Just complete your mission.”
Amanda raised her arm, and a small dart shot out of her wristwatch, hitting Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s mind swirled into unconsciousness.
The air was whipping against Bruce’s face, shocking him awake. He was free-falling through the air. He turned himself over to look upwards, and saw a jet zooming away. He felt a string hitting his arm, and he yanked it. A parachute exploded out of the pack on his back, and he drifted to the brown, barren ground slowly. He looked around him. In the distance, he could see a small town. A stark white chapel rose above the surrounding buildings. Suddenly, the incidents of the meeting with Amanda flooded his mind, and he remembered why he was here. He took off his backpack, and rummaged through it. There was a black balaclava and a pistol. He held the pistol, and felt disgusted. A pistol is what killed his parents. There was no way he was using it. He pulled back the top, knocked out a bullet, and dropped the mag out of the gun. He tossed it aside, and pulled on the balaclava. He was doing this mission his way.
Bruce marched towards the town, and thought about what the Church could be manufacturing. Cocaine? Methamphetamines?
Whatever it was, Bruce was going to stop them, and rescue this assassin.
A few minutes later, Bruce reached the town. The houses on the outskirts of the town were run down. Some had roofs that had caved in, others were missing parts of their walls. A man sat on a deteriorating porch, smoking a long cigarette. He eyed Bruce suspiciously. He reached behind him, and Bruce took a deep breath.
“Hvem er du?” the man asked. Bruce closed his eyes, trying to remember what language this was. He wasn’t sure, but he assumed it was Danish. He pulled up what little knowledge of Danish he had in order to make a response.
“Ingen.” No one.
“Hvorfor har du en maske?”
Bruce didn’t understand, and said, “Jeg kan ikke forstå dig. Jeg taler engelsk.”
“English?” the man asked, “What is English-Man doing in our town?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Bruce said, and continued walking. The man continued to glare at him, and Bruce shivered. This town wasn’t very welcoming.
Eventually, Bruce came to the chapel. There was a group of people around it, trying to get in through the front doors. A few people cast him weird looks, but no one spoke up. Bruce turned away from the crowd, and went around to the back of the tall, wooden chapel. There was a small, rusted, iron trapdoor at the base of the chapel. Bruce pulled on the handle, but the hatch wouldn’t budge. So, he began to use the wooden slats on the chapel to scale the building. He got about six feet off of the ground, and jumped off. He extended his right leg, and came down on the trapdoor. It immediately gave way, and Bruce smashed through. He rolled on the ground, and clutched his leg. That was painful. He shakily got back on his feet, and looked around. The gray light from above illuminated the cement room he was in.
Little girls and boys were lined up on the walls. They were skin and bones. One of them cried out in fear when he saw Bruce. Other cried, silently.
“What’s going on here?” Bruce asked out loud. Then, he heard a crunching noise, and a loud creak. A bright yellow light flooded the room. Bruce covered his eyes, and squinted.
“Hvad helvede?” Bruce heard a man grunt, confused. Bruce’s vision cleared, and he saw tall, broad shouldered, bearded man wearing a gray robe. He reached around his back, and yanked a shotgun out. He aimed the shotgun at Bruce. Bruce gritted his teeth. There was no talking his way out of this one. He charged at the man. The man fired, and shotgun shells sprayed all over the room. Children ducked away, trying to avoid being hit. Bruce slid under the blast, and took out the man’s legs. He hopped to his feet, and punched the man in the mouth. Then, he yanked the shotgun out of his hands, and smacked it across his face. The man went limp. All of the children gazed at him in awe.
“Jeg er sikker,” Bruce said. He was fairly certain it meant I am safe. Then, he heard marching. Someone else was coming.
“Hvem laver problemer?” came a smooth, feminine voice. Bruce understood this. Who is making trouble? Bruce didn’t want to meet this woman. He sprinted over to the door, and slammed it shut.
“Åben!” the woman shouted, banging on the door.
“Does anyone here speak English?” Bruce asked the children, hurriedly. The majority of them nodded. So Bruce asked, “What are you doing down here?”
“The Church takes us. As sacrifices to Hel,” a girl said.
“Hel?” Bruce asked, “Who the hell still worships Hel?”
“The Church,” the girl said. Her eyes were growing wide. Bruce turned, and saw that the door was shaking. Then, it burst into splinters, and knocked Bruce down. Bruce turned over to see a woman in a red dress. A red hood was pulled over her face. Bruce got up, and raised his fists. The woman glared at him, and her eyes flashed red through the cloth of her hood. Bruce stumbled backwards, and saw the children stand up. They moved towards him sluggishly, and began to devour his flesh. He screamed out, then saw the children vanish. A hallucination. The woman grinned.
“Who- Who are you?” Bruce asked.
“I am Mother Mayhem,” the woman hissed, “And you are trespassing.”
“I didn’t mean to trespass,” Bruce pleaded, “I was here to worship Hel. But the crowd was blocking the door. I found another way in.”
“You insult me,” the woman growled, “Thinking I would believe a foolish story such as yours. You die now.”
“Ingen!” one of the children yelled. It was a small girl with blonde, almost yellow, hair. She leapt at Mother Mayhem, but was yanked back to the wall by the chain around her ankle. Mother Mayhem turned, and looked at the girl, amused. The girl lunged again, and the chain ripped out of the wall. Mother Mayhem’s smug look turned to one of terror. The girl punched Mother Mayhem. Mother Mayhem grabbed the girl’s wrist, and dug her long red fingernails into it. Blood spilled from the girl’s wrist, but she had given Bruce enough time to attack. Bruce wrapped his arms around Mother Mayhem’s waist, and flung her to the ground. Her head slammed into the rusted chain that the girl had pulled out from the wall, and a loud, splitting sound filled the air. Blood immediately pooled around Mother Mayhem’s head.
“Moder? Moder? Hvor er du?” a voice called out from above. Someone was calling out for their mother.
“Go. Escape. You do not want Bror Blod to find you,” the girl said. Bruce shuddered. Bror Blod meant Brother Blood.
“No. I’m going to face Bror Blod. It’ll give you all time to escape.”
“How? We are chained,” a boy pointed out.
“Not for long,” Bruce said. He went around the room, and yanked the weak chains out of the walls. The children eagerly climbed up the ladder to go out the hatch. As the last child was climbing out, a square-jawed man with buzz cut black hair entered the cement room. He was wearing the skull of Musk Ox over his own head.
“Moder!” the man cried out upon seeing Mother Mayhem on the floor, “Du dræbte hende!”
Bruce understood what the man was saying. Not because he knew the Danish that the man had spoken, but because of the man’s tone of voice. Mother Mayhem was dead.
“Stay there Bror Blod,” Bruce warned. He wasn’t sure, but he was fairly positive that this was Brother Blood. He had a “death-y” vibe to him. Very Brother Blood-esque.
“You killed her!” Brother Blood sobbed, “You killed her!”
“She attacked me,” Bruce said.
“You… You must die… You will be our next sacrifice…”
Bruce sighed. He didn’t want another fight. Brother Blood trudged back up the stairs. Bruce blinked a few times. He could just walk away from this, unharmed. But he had a mission. Bring down the Church and rescue the assassin. So he followed Brother Blood up the stairs. The stairs led him to the inside of the church. Pews were filled with men and women. They all had blank stares on their faces. A glamorous altar was centered at the front. A black pillar stood tall in front of the altar, and had smoke surrounding it. Brother Blood stood at the altar, and raised his arms.
“Denne mand har slagtet Moder Mayhem. Lad hans blod være vores næste offer,” Brother Blood said. The audience simply nodded. Brother Blood walked around to the other side of the altar, and placed his hands on the pillar. His veins shimmered with a dark flare, and he breathed in, deeply. When he opened his eyes, they were dark red. Bloodred.
“Master Bruce, I think it’s time you left,” Alfred suggested.
“Left?” Bruce asked.
“For the funeral,” Alfred nodded.
“Right,” Bruce nodded. The funeral for Barbara Gordon. The Batgirl.
Bruce stood up, and ran his hands down his black suit. He sighed, and walked out to his car. He drove off.
Alfred stood in the doorway, and shook his head. He always worried this day would come. The day when Batman was not enough. The day when someone would die. Someone close to Bruce.
In his car, Bruce drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He glanced at his phone, and saw a text from Oswald. He opened the text, while still driving.
IN RECOVERY NOW. EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE IT’LL HEAL.
A shimmer of hope in the dark times. Bruce put his phone down, and continued to the funeral home. When he pulled up, he saw Jim Gordon leaning against the building with a cigar between his teeth. He turned when he saw Bruce.
“What brings Bruce Wayne to my daughter’s funeral?” Jim Gordon asked. The light Bruce had once seen in Jim’s eyes was gone.
“I’ve tried to visit as many funerals for the victims in the attack. The Nobodies were going after me. I feel partially responsible.”
“Ah, you’re not responsible,” Jim waved away Bruce, dismissively, “You couldn’t control the Nobodies. But Barbara didn’t have to die. It’s all Batman’s fault.”
“Batman’s fault?” Bruce asked.
“After she died, I learned Barbara was the Batgirl. If Batman hadn’t dragged her into his crazy crusade, she would be alive.”
“Oh. Well, if it’s any consolation, we at Wayne Tech are designing a new camera software system to help track and catch Batman,” Bruce said. That was a lie.
“The sooner we get that lunatic, the better,” Jim nodded.
“I agree.”
“Thank you for stopping by, Mister Wayne,” Jim said.
Bruce shook his hand, and walked inside the funeral home. Only Barbara’s arm was still intact when clean up crews found her remains. It had taken a DNA test to confirm it was indeed Barbara. Jim had had her arm cremated, and it was in a small box. Bruce walked up to the small box, and put his hand on it.
“I’m so sorry,” Bruce sighed.
“Sorry for what? It was her dumbass decision to become an off-brand Batman. All those costumed freaks are out of their minds.”
Bruce turned to see a boy who looked to be about seventeen. He had the same dull orange hair as Barbara. James Gordon Jr. Or J.J. as he was called by football teammates.
“Dad is just as bad. He’s got a soft spot for the criminally insane. As long as they have Bat in the name. I mean, come on. Batman’s just as bad as the Joker was.”
“The Batman caught the Joker,” Bruce said, annoyed that Barbara’s own brother was causing a disturbance before her funeral.
“But they’re just two sides of the same coin,” J.J. said, “They belong in the same cell at Arkham. Luckily, my dad is coming down hard on Bat-freak. He’s done working with that lunatic.”
Bruce looked back at the box of ashes. This was not what he needed to hear. Barbara was dead, Oswald was in the hospital, and Jim Gordon was cutting ties with him.
“Well that’s good,” Bruce said, forcing a smile. J.J. nodded, and walked away. Bruce coughed, uncomfortably. It was time for him to leave. He walked to the door, and saw Jim walking in.
“Again, I’m so sorry about what happened,” Bruce said, “It’s a tragedy.”
Jim just nodded.
Bruce made it out to his car, and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned on the ignition, and began to back out of his parking spot. Then, he noticed someone in the seat next to him. He had been too distraught, thinking about Barbara, to notice it before. It was a woman. She was very stocky, had dark skin, and straight, black hair.
“Twenty-three seconds,” the woman sighed, “I expected more from the Batman.”
Bruce slammed on his brakes, and looked at her, bewildered, “What did you just say? And who the hell are you?”
“Amanda Waller,” the woman said, “And I already know who you are. Bruce Wayne. Or Batman. Which one do you prefer.”
“Bru-”
“Never mind, I don’t care,” Amanda said.
“Do you want to explain what you’re doing sitting creepily in my car?” Bruce asked.
“I don’t have to. Keep driving.”
“And why would I do that Ms. Waller?” Bruce asked.
“That’s Commander Waller,” Amanda corrected, then pulled a gun from out of her black pantsuit, “And you’ll drive because I told you to.”
“Right,” Bruce nodded, “Where to, Commander Waller?”
“Wayne Manor.”
Bruce started driving towards home. Amanda casually glanced out the window, while still aiming her pistol at Bruce.
“Nice city,” Amanda mused.
“You should see it from my perspective…” Bruce said, “Not so pretty then.”
“Whose perspective? Batman’s or Bruce’s?” Amanda asked.
“Both,” Bruce admitted. Amanda knew about his crusade already. And he knew she wasn’t bluffing. He picked up on that quickly.
“Oh really? What’s so awful about this city to Bruce Wayne?”
“I mean, I’m always trying to help this city, but then it tears itself apart again. Then Batman has to clean up, and we start the process over again.”
Amanda pressed her lips together, and nodded, silently. The rest of the car ride was spent in silence. About thirty minutes later, they pulled up the long driveway leading to Wayne Manor.
“So, Commander Waller, what do you need from me here?” Bruce asked.
“I just needed the public to think all was well with Bruce Wayne,” Amanda said.
“What do you-?”
Bruce felt the pistol smack across the back of his head. He got back up, wondering if Amanda actually thought hitting him would the trick. He was the Batman. She aimed the pistol at him, and told him not to move. Bruce adjusted his watch, and Amanda glared at him, suspecting something. Bruce kicked his foot out, and a Batarang shot out of the toe, flying towards Amanda. Amanda ducked, and dove at Bruce’s legs, taking him down. She then repeatedly beat him across the face with her pistol. Bruce blacked out.
When Bruce woke up, he was chained to a chair. In front of him was a table with Amanda Waller sitting across from him.
“I’m glad that you cooperated with me Mister Wayne,” Amanda smiled.
“What do you want?” Bruce asked. He could feel hardened blood all over his face. He could taste it in his mouth as well.
“I want Batman’s help,” Amanda said.
“And you decided that simply asking without beating me up was too difficult?” Bruce spat.
“Well, I had a feeling you wouldn’t necessarily be on board with my request,” Amanda said.
“And what is that?”
“I need you to rescue an assassin,” Amanda said.
“An assassin? What organization are you a commander of?” Bruce asked.
“That’s strictly confidential,” Amanda said, slapping a file on the table, “Now listen up. An operative of mine was undercover in a drug cartel up in Greenland. The Church. Things went south, and he was captured. You’ll be dropped off near the location that we have pinpointed as the most likely place that he is being held. Break in, rescue the operative, and bring down the Brotherhood.”
“What makes you think I’ll do this?” Bruce asked. Amanda smiled, and pointed to the chains holding him. Bruce smiled right back, and stood up. The chains fell to his ankles.
“Impressive,” Amanda admitted, “But I have four heavily armed guards outside this door who wouldn’t hesitate to fill your body with bullets. So sit back down.”
Bruce lowered himself back into his seat.
“There is a bright side to this mission, Mister Wayne,” Amanda said.
“What’s that?” Bruce asked.
“We’ve monitored your search history in the Batcave,” Amanda said. Bruce looked down, embarrassed at some of the stuff that was on there.
“We’re not worried about your… habits,” Amanda said, “What we’re interested in is your searches for File 1939.”
“The stolen file,” Bruce said.
“That would be correct,” Amanda nodded.
“You have access to this file?”
“We have access to every electronic file ever since the dawn of time,” Amanda said smugly.
“I’ll do it,” Bruce said.
“Good. You didn’t really have a choice.”
“If I had to do it anyways, why did you offer up an incentive?” Bruce asked.
“Just complete your mission.”
Amanda raised her arm, and a small dart shot out of her wristwatch, hitting Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s mind swirled into unconsciousness.
The air was whipping against Bruce’s face, shocking him awake. He was free-falling through the air. He turned himself over to look upwards, and saw a jet zooming away. He felt a string hitting his arm, and he yanked it. A parachute exploded out of the pack on his back, and he drifted to the brown, barren ground slowly. He looked around him. In the distance, he could see a small town. A stark white chapel rose above the surrounding buildings. Suddenly, the incidents of the meeting with Amanda flooded his mind, and he remembered why he was here. He took off his backpack, and rummaged through it. There was a black balaclava and a pistol. He held the pistol, and felt disgusted. A pistol is what killed his parents. There was no way he was using it. He pulled back the top, knocked out a bullet, and dropped the mag out of the gun. He tossed it aside, and pulled on the balaclava. He was doing this mission his way.
Bruce marched towards the town, and thought about what the Church could be manufacturing. Cocaine? Methamphetamines?
Whatever it was, Bruce was going to stop them, and rescue this assassin.
A few minutes later, Bruce reached the town. The houses on the outskirts of the town were run down. Some had roofs that had caved in, others were missing parts of their walls. A man sat on a deteriorating porch, smoking a long cigarette. He eyed Bruce suspiciously. He reached behind him, and Bruce took a deep breath.
“Hvem er du?” the man asked. Bruce closed his eyes, trying to remember what language this was. He wasn’t sure, but he assumed it was Danish. He pulled up what little knowledge of Danish he had in order to make a response.
“Ingen.” No one.
“Hvorfor har du en maske?”
Bruce didn’t understand, and said, “Jeg kan ikke forstå dig. Jeg taler engelsk.”
“English?” the man asked, “What is English-Man doing in our town?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Bruce said, and continued walking. The man continued to glare at him, and Bruce shivered. This town wasn’t very welcoming.
Eventually, Bruce came to the chapel. There was a group of people around it, trying to get in through the front doors. A few people cast him weird looks, but no one spoke up. Bruce turned away from the crowd, and went around to the back of the tall, wooden chapel. There was a small, rusted, iron trapdoor at the base of the chapel. Bruce pulled on the handle, but the hatch wouldn’t budge. So, he began to use the wooden slats on the chapel to scale the building. He got about six feet off of the ground, and jumped off. He extended his right leg, and came down on the trapdoor. It immediately gave way, and Bruce smashed through. He rolled on the ground, and clutched his leg. That was painful. He shakily got back on his feet, and looked around. The gray light from above illuminated the cement room he was in.
Little girls and boys were lined up on the walls. They were skin and bones. One of them cried out in fear when he saw Bruce. Other cried, silently.
“What’s going on here?” Bruce asked out loud. Then, he heard a crunching noise, and a loud creak. A bright yellow light flooded the room. Bruce covered his eyes, and squinted.
“Hvad helvede?” Bruce heard a man grunt, confused. Bruce’s vision cleared, and he saw tall, broad shouldered, bearded man wearing a gray robe. He reached around his back, and yanked a shotgun out. He aimed the shotgun at Bruce. Bruce gritted his teeth. There was no talking his way out of this one. He charged at the man. The man fired, and shotgun shells sprayed all over the room. Children ducked away, trying to avoid being hit. Bruce slid under the blast, and took out the man’s legs. He hopped to his feet, and punched the man in the mouth. Then, he yanked the shotgun out of his hands, and smacked it across his face. The man went limp. All of the children gazed at him in awe.
“Jeg er sikker,” Bruce said. He was fairly certain it meant I am safe. Then, he heard marching. Someone else was coming.
“Hvem laver problemer?” came a smooth, feminine voice. Bruce understood this. Who is making trouble? Bruce didn’t want to meet this woman. He sprinted over to the door, and slammed it shut.
“Åben!” the woman shouted, banging on the door.
“Does anyone here speak English?” Bruce asked the children, hurriedly. The majority of them nodded. So Bruce asked, “What are you doing down here?”
“The Church takes us. As sacrifices to Hel,” a girl said.
“Hel?” Bruce asked, “Who the hell still worships Hel?”
“The Church,” the girl said. Her eyes were growing wide. Bruce turned, and saw that the door was shaking. Then, it burst into splinters, and knocked Bruce down. Bruce turned over to see a woman in a red dress. A red hood was pulled over her face. Bruce got up, and raised his fists. The woman glared at him, and her eyes flashed red through the cloth of her hood. Bruce stumbled backwards, and saw the children stand up. They moved towards him sluggishly, and began to devour his flesh. He screamed out, then saw the children vanish. A hallucination. The woman grinned.
“Who- Who are you?” Bruce asked.
“I am Mother Mayhem,” the woman hissed, “And you are trespassing.”
“I didn’t mean to trespass,” Bruce pleaded, “I was here to worship Hel. But the crowd was blocking the door. I found another way in.”
“You insult me,” the woman growled, “Thinking I would believe a foolish story such as yours. You die now.”
“Ingen!” one of the children yelled. It was a small girl with blonde, almost yellow, hair. She leapt at Mother Mayhem, but was yanked back to the wall by the chain around her ankle. Mother Mayhem turned, and looked at the girl, amused. The girl lunged again, and the chain ripped out of the wall. Mother Mayhem’s smug look turned to one of terror. The girl punched Mother Mayhem. Mother Mayhem grabbed the girl’s wrist, and dug her long red fingernails into it. Blood spilled from the girl’s wrist, but she had given Bruce enough time to attack. Bruce wrapped his arms around Mother Mayhem’s waist, and flung her to the ground. Her head slammed into the rusted chain that the girl had pulled out from the wall, and a loud, splitting sound filled the air. Blood immediately pooled around Mother Mayhem’s head.
“Moder? Moder? Hvor er du?” a voice called out from above. Someone was calling out for their mother.
“Go. Escape. You do not want Bror Blod to find you,” the girl said. Bruce shuddered. Bror Blod meant Brother Blood.
“No. I’m going to face Bror Blod. It’ll give you all time to escape.”
“How? We are chained,” a boy pointed out.
“Not for long,” Bruce said. He went around the room, and yanked the weak chains out of the walls. The children eagerly climbed up the ladder to go out the hatch. As the last child was climbing out, a square-jawed man with buzz cut black hair entered the cement room. He was wearing the skull of Musk Ox over his own head.
“Moder!” the man cried out upon seeing Mother Mayhem on the floor, “Du dræbte hende!”
Bruce understood what the man was saying. Not because he knew the Danish that the man had spoken, but because of the man’s tone of voice. Mother Mayhem was dead.
“Stay there Bror Blod,” Bruce warned. He wasn’t sure, but he was fairly positive that this was Brother Blood. He had a “death-y” vibe to him. Very Brother Blood-esque.
“You killed her!” Brother Blood sobbed, “You killed her!”
“She attacked me,” Bruce said.
“You… You must die… You will be our next sacrifice…”
Bruce sighed. He didn’t want another fight. Brother Blood trudged back up the stairs. Bruce blinked a few times. He could just walk away from this, unharmed. But he had a mission. Bring down the Church and rescue the assassin. So he followed Brother Blood up the stairs. The stairs led him to the inside of the church. Pews were filled with men and women. They all had blank stares on their faces. A glamorous altar was centered at the front. A black pillar stood tall in front of the altar, and had smoke surrounding it. Brother Blood stood at the altar, and raised his arms.
“Denne mand har slagtet Moder Mayhem. Lad hans blod være vores næste offer,” Brother Blood said. The audience simply nodded. Brother Blood walked around to the other side of the altar, and placed his hands on the pillar. His veins shimmered with a dark flare, and he breathed in, deeply. When he opened his eyes, they were dark red. Bloodred.