Bruce glanced up at the Batcomputer, and sighed. There was so much going on. two in the two nights since the gala. Then there was the file. It had been burnt, and File 1939 was missing from the database. There was no way of knowing what was on that file that made it so important. Lastly, there was Oswald Cobblepot, and his “transaction” with Leo. Bruce had wanted to research both the file and Oswald more in depth, but the murders had taken most of his time.
The victims had all been left with nasty scars across their face. Most likely a calling card, because the scars were carved after the victim had died.
“Master Bruce, I assume you’re heading out soon?” Alfred said, noticing that Bruce’s hands were already gloved.
“I have to make sure no one else dies,” Bruce said.
“People die every second of every day,” Alfred stated, matter-of-factly.
“But not all of them are murdered,” Bruce responded, “I do what I do to keep others from having to go through what I did. No more murders.”
“That’s a highly unrealistic goal,” Alfred sighed.
“I know,” Bruce admitted, “But you know me Al. I always set the bar high.”
Bruce and Alfred looked at each other, and smiled. Suddenly, the Batcomputer began to beep.
“Time for me to go.”
“Be safe Bruce.”
“Never,” Bruce grinned, walking over to the Batmobile.
“Oh God no. Oh please, God, no,” Markus Eaison pleaded, “Don’t do this.”
“No! Don’t listen to him! Listen to me! Do it!” a voice hissed.
“I don’t want to!” another voice sobbed, “I don’t want to kill anymore!”
“Then I guess it’s time for me to give you another… punishment.”
“No! No punishment!” the sobbing voice cried, “I- I’ll do it.”
“Good…” the hissing voice said.
Markus Eaison was on his back, trying to make out where the voices were coming from. Then, he felt a cold hand that didn’t feel human reach over his mouth. Then, he heard a gunshot, and felt his side gushing out blood. His eyes fluttered shut for the last time.
About eight minutes later, the police arrived. Commissioner Jim Gordon knelt near Markus’s dead body, and stared at the long, straight scar that ran across his face. Jim felt someone standing over him.
“You’re eight minutes too late,” Gordon said, taking his Marlboro pack out his pocket, and drawing out a long cigarette.
“So are you,” Batman said.
“Yeah, that seems to be a common theme here in Gotham. We’re always a few minutes late.”
“I’ll catch this murderer,” Batman assured.
“Good luck. We’ve got three squads on high alert for any sign of him right now. He’s a certified freak. People at the precinct have taken to calling him ‘Scarface’.”
“Scarface? I’ll catch him soon,” Batman said.
“Before he kills another person would be preferable,” Gordon said. He faced Markus again, then turned back to where Batman was. But Batman was gone.
“Penny-One, pull up files on the victims from the past three nights,” Batman said from the comforts of his Batmobile.
“On it, sir.”
Batman sat in silence for a few minutes before Alfred spoke again.
“It appears that the victims are all somehow tied to the entertainment industry. Harper Erich was a tightrope walker. Lonnie Perdiah was a comedian. Markus Eaison was a singer.”
“Entertainers…” Batman muttered to himself, “Entertainers…”
“Perhaps it could have something to do with the talent competition being hosted in the Reid Center tomorrow,” Alfred suggested.
“You could be onto something,” Batman nodded, “Make reservations for me.”
“Would you like to sit anywhere specific?” Alfred asked.
“No, not- actually, yeah. Box seats,” Batman grinned.
“Sir, the boxes are already full,” Alfred said.
Batman sighed, and said, “Alright. Anywhere.”
It was ten twenty-three the next day when Bruce began preparing for the show. It would begin at twelve, and he wanted to arrive by eleven thirty. Suddenly, something hit him.
“Harper Erich. Lonnie Perdiah. Markus Eaison,” Bruce said.
“What did you say?” Alfred asked from outside of the closet.
“Harper Erich, Lonnie Perdiah, and Markus Eaison.”
“Yes, the victims,” Alfred said.
“Their initials. H, E, L, P, M, E.”
“But- Dear God you’re right,” Alfred said, shocked.
“Coincidence?” Bruce asked.
“Is anything a coincidence in this city?” Alfred asked.
“So do you think that this ‘Scarface’ is being forced to kill against his will?” Bruce asked.
“I’d be willing to bet on it,” Alfred nodded, walking in. He then slapped a hand over his eyes. Bruce was only wearing gray briefs.
“You shouldn’t have walked in, Al,” Bruce chuckled.
“No, it’s all right,” Alfred sighed, “I mean, I’ve seen you naked before.”
“You make it sound weird when you say it,” Bruce smiled.
“You know what I meant,” Alfred groaned, “I was in charge of bathing you as a boy!”
“I’m just messing with you Al!” Bruce laughed, and pulled on a pair on black slacks. “I think I’d better head down to the cave and do some thinking about who could be forcing Scarface to commit these atrocities.”
“I’ll inform you when you should leave for the show,” Alfred said.
Bruce spent nearly two hours in the Batcave, mulling over different possibilities. Was Scarface working for the people in the white masks? Was he working for Falcone? What was going on? Bruce’s best guess was that Scarface was part of the white mask group that was causing so much trouble.
“Bruce!” Alfred called frantically, from upstairs, “I lost track of time! It’s 12:13!”
Bruce hurriedly ran upstairs, and rushed to his car. He hopped in, and began speeding towards the Reid Center. He called Alfred.
“Alfred, what’s going on?” Bruce asked.
“Hold on, let me find the channel… Ah, here we are. There’s a ventriloquist on stage. He’s introducing himself. Arnold Wesker. And his puppet- oh no.”
“What is it Al?” Bruce said, nervously.
“His puppet’s name is Scarface,” Alfred said, shocked.
“Scarface is a puppet?” Bruce explained.
“It appears so, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “But at least we know a puppet can’t do anything. It was Wesker all along. Go get him.”
“Alright, just keep giving me updates,” Bruce said, weaving in and out of traffic.
“Scarface is talking. He’s telling Arnold to do something. Arnold is crying. He doesn’t want to do whatever it is. The audience is pretty nervous. Phew, here comes security. Dear God! He’s got a gun! Bruce, hurry!”
Bruce floored the gas, and sped between two trucks. They both blared their horns, and flipped him off. He angrily flipped them off back.
“Bruce…” Alfred said, despairingly, “Arnold. He’s got a detonator. He says there’s a bomb under the box seats. People are trying to evacuate. Scarface is yelling at Arnold to hit the detonator. Arnold is bawling. HE’S GOT HIS FINGER ON THE DETONATOR! HURRY BRUCE!”
Bruce clenched his jaw. He could see the Reid Center. Then he saw the back part of it combust. Debris shot through the air, slamming into cars and other buildings. Bruce had to veer off the road to avoid a chunk of a brick. He immediately hopped out of his car, which suffered only a few scratches on the side, and rushed over to the Reid Center. People were pouring out of it, coughing and screaming. Bruce pushed passed them, and made his way inside. He saw four guards dead on the stage, with scars across their faces. And he saw Arnold Wesker crying in a corner. His puppet was screaming at him, and hitting him. Arnold was a small, balding old man, with wisps of white hair on the sides of his head. He had round glasses that made him look innocent. But he had just murdered a crowd of people. He deserved to be punished.
Bruce ran over, and punched Arnold across the face. That felt good. Suddenly, Arnold fired a bullet into Bruce’s side.
“I’m pulling the strings now!” Scarface cackled.
“Please! Make him stop!” Arnold wailed.
“What is wrong you?” Bruce roared, trying to smack Scarface off of Arnold’s hand. But he wouldn’t budge.
“He keeps telling me to do it! It’s not my fault! If I don’t listen he- he- he hurts me!” Arnold cried.
Something was definitely wrong with Arnold Wesker.
“Shoot him again you idiot!” Scarface howled.
“I don’t want to!” Arnold screamed.
Bruce took out a small Batrang from the inside of his slacks, and flung it at Scarface. His head came right off. Arnold collapsed, smiling through tears.
“You- you got my message,” Arnold said, “You helped me.”
“You are not healthy Arnold,” Bruce said, “You’re going away for a long time. At Arkham Asylum. But maybe the people there can help you.”
“I won’t tell anyone who you are,” Arnold promised, “As my return for you helping me. Thank you!”
Bruce picked up the Batarang, and walked away. He didn’t know why he didn’t hurt Arnold. Maybe because he truly believed his story. Arnold was mentally ill. That puppet could very well have been causing him mental trauma. But all Bruce knew was that now the police would take Arnold into custody, and Gotham would be safe from Scarface.
Bruce was sitting in the living room of Wayne Manor, relaxing. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He heard Alfred open it.
“Master Bruce! It’s Mr. Cobblepot!”
Bruce stood up, and walked to the door. Oswald was standing in the doorway, wearing a white t-shirt with the words “Gotham Zoo” on it in bright red letters. Cartoon giraffes, lions, and bears were seen in the background. He had on black cargo shorts.
“Brucey!” Oswald beamed.
“Hey Oswald,” Bruce smiled.
“Sorry for passing out on you at the gala,” Oswald said, “Had sixteen too many drinks. I thought I’d make it up to you. How about we go to the zoo? Like we did as kids?”
“You know what? I’d love to.”
Bruce was in comfortable clothes already. A blue t-shirt and orange athletic shorts. So they walked out to Oswald’s gray Nissan, and got in.
“So you’re a stock broker?” Bruce said, hoping to learn more about the transaction.
“Yup. My job hasn’t changed from three days ago, believe it or not,” Oswald chuckled.
“Nice,” Bruce said, “So have any good deals gone down lately?”
Oswald’s eyes darted back and forth, nervously. “Nah. Not much. Work is boring. Why don’t we talk about something else? Like how strange it is that you didn’t wind up sleeping with six different girls the night of the gala!”
“I guess I’m saving my game for the right girl,” Bruce shrugged.
“Since when did people like you and me care about the ‘right girl’?” Oswald cracked up.
“A lot has changed since you were away,” Bruce sighed.
“Don’t be a downer,” Oswald groaned.
“Alright!” Bruce laughed, “No downer from me today!”
“And tonight, you will have at least two girls in that bed of yours,” Oswald said, smiling mischievously.
“Obviously,” Bruce nodded.
Then, from out of nowhere, Bruce felt himself fly up. His seatbelt caught him, and yanked him back into his seat. Their car was rolling. Bruce became a bobblehead. His face was slammed against the window so hard that it broke, leaving small cuts behind. On the second roll, his head snapped back to hit the headrest. Then on the third and final roll, Bruce’s face slammed into the air bag, preventing any further injuries.
Oswald fared better. He had hit the window with less force, and it only caused a bruise.
“Bruce, you okay?” Oswald called.
“Yeah,” Bruce groaned. He spotted what had hit them. A large semi. The driver stepped out. He was wearing a white mask. And holding an AR-15.
Oswald began to climb out of the vehicle, but Bruce grabbed his ankle, and pointed to the driver. Oswald reached over to the glove compartment, opened it, and pulled out a Glock 23. He got out of the car, and aimed to pistol at the driver.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Oswald yelled.
“Nobody,” the driver said. He aimed the gun at Oswald, and pulled the trigger. Bullets slammed into Oswald’s chest, flinging him back. Bruce scrambled over to Oswald, and placed a finger against his neck. Alive. Bruce dragged him back inside the car, and tore out stuffing from the seats, covering him with it. Then, he felt the barrel of the assault rifle against the back of his head. He thrust his leg out behind him, knocking the driver off of his feet. Then, Bruce turned over, and grabbed the driver’s shoulders. He brought his feet up to the driver’s chest, and launched him into a stalled car. Then, he ran over, and bashed the driver’s face with his knee.
Suddenly, a smooth voice filled the air. Chilling. It was coming from all around.
“Citizens of Gotham. For far too long you have worshipped idols of wealth and power, while ignoring the people who had far too little to make it anywhere in life. The homeless. The forgotten. The outcasts. But now, we have come together. You will know us as we are. We are the Nobodies.”
The victims had all been left with nasty scars across their face. Most likely a calling card, because the scars were carved after the victim had died.
“Master Bruce, I assume you’re heading out soon?” Alfred said, noticing that Bruce’s hands were already gloved.
“I have to make sure no one else dies,” Bruce said.
“People die every second of every day,” Alfred stated, matter-of-factly.
“But not all of them are murdered,” Bruce responded, “I do what I do to keep others from having to go through what I did. No more murders.”
“That’s a highly unrealistic goal,” Alfred sighed.
“I know,” Bruce admitted, “But you know me Al. I always set the bar high.”
Bruce and Alfred looked at each other, and smiled. Suddenly, the Batcomputer began to beep.
“Time for me to go.”
“Be safe Bruce.”
“Never,” Bruce grinned, walking over to the Batmobile.
“Oh God no. Oh please, God, no,” Markus Eaison pleaded, “Don’t do this.”
“No! Don’t listen to him! Listen to me! Do it!” a voice hissed.
“I don’t want to!” another voice sobbed, “I don’t want to kill anymore!”
“Then I guess it’s time for me to give you another… punishment.”
“No! No punishment!” the sobbing voice cried, “I- I’ll do it.”
“Good…” the hissing voice said.
Markus Eaison was on his back, trying to make out where the voices were coming from. Then, he felt a cold hand that didn’t feel human reach over his mouth. Then, he heard a gunshot, and felt his side gushing out blood. His eyes fluttered shut for the last time.
About eight minutes later, the police arrived. Commissioner Jim Gordon knelt near Markus’s dead body, and stared at the long, straight scar that ran across his face. Jim felt someone standing over him.
“You’re eight minutes too late,” Gordon said, taking his Marlboro pack out his pocket, and drawing out a long cigarette.
“So are you,” Batman said.
“Yeah, that seems to be a common theme here in Gotham. We’re always a few minutes late.”
“I’ll catch this murderer,” Batman assured.
“Good luck. We’ve got three squads on high alert for any sign of him right now. He’s a certified freak. People at the precinct have taken to calling him ‘Scarface’.”
“Scarface? I’ll catch him soon,” Batman said.
“Before he kills another person would be preferable,” Gordon said. He faced Markus again, then turned back to where Batman was. But Batman was gone.
“Penny-One, pull up files on the victims from the past three nights,” Batman said from the comforts of his Batmobile.
“On it, sir.”
Batman sat in silence for a few minutes before Alfred spoke again.
“It appears that the victims are all somehow tied to the entertainment industry. Harper Erich was a tightrope walker. Lonnie Perdiah was a comedian. Markus Eaison was a singer.”
“Entertainers…” Batman muttered to himself, “Entertainers…”
“Perhaps it could have something to do with the talent competition being hosted in the Reid Center tomorrow,” Alfred suggested.
“You could be onto something,” Batman nodded, “Make reservations for me.”
“Would you like to sit anywhere specific?” Alfred asked.
“No, not- actually, yeah. Box seats,” Batman grinned.
“Sir, the boxes are already full,” Alfred said.
Batman sighed, and said, “Alright. Anywhere.”
It was ten twenty-three the next day when Bruce began preparing for the show. It would begin at twelve, and he wanted to arrive by eleven thirty. Suddenly, something hit him.
“Harper Erich. Lonnie Perdiah. Markus Eaison,” Bruce said.
“What did you say?” Alfred asked from outside of the closet.
“Harper Erich, Lonnie Perdiah, and Markus Eaison.”
“Yes, the victims,” Alfred said.
“Their initials. H, E, L, P, M, E.”
“But- Dear God you’re right,” Alfred said, shocked.
“Coincidence?” Bruce asked.
“Is anything a coincidence in this city?” Alfred asked.
“So do you think that this ‘Scarface’ is being forced to kill against his will?” Bruce asked.
“I’d be willing to bet on it,” Alfred nodded, walking in. He then slapped a hand over his eyes. Bruce was only wearing gray briefs.
“You shouldn’t have walked in, Al,” Bruce chuckled.
“No, it’s all right,” Alfred sighed, “I mean, I’ve seen you naked before.”
“You make it sound weird when you say it,” Bruce smiled.
“You know what I meant,” Alfred groaned, “I was in charge of bathing you as a boy!”
“I’m just messing with you Al!” Bruce laughed, and pulled on a pair on black slacks. “I think I’d better head down to the cave and do some thinking about who could be forcing Scarface to commit these atrocities.”
“I’ll inform you when you should leave for the show,” Alfred said.
Bruce spent nearly two hours in the Batcave, mulling over different possibilities. Was Scarface working for the people in the white masks? Was he working for Falcone? What was going on? Bruce’s best guess was that Scarface was part of the white mask group that was causing so much trouble.
“Bruce!” Alfred called frantically, from upstairs, “I lost track of time! It’s 12:13!”
Bruce hurriedly ran upstairs, and rushed to his car. He hopped in, and began speeding towards the Reid Center. He called Alfred.
“Alfred, what’s going on?” Bruce asked.
“Hold on, let me find the channel… Ah, here we are. There’s a ventriloquist on stage. He’s introducing himself. Arnold Wesker. And his puppet- oh no.”
“What is it Al?” Bruce said, nervously.
“His puppet’s name is Scarface,” Alfred said, shocked.
“Scarface is a puppet?” Bruce explained.
“It appears so, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “But at least we know a puppet can’t do anything. It was Wesker all along. Go get him.”
“Alright, just keep giving me updates,” Bruce said, weaving in and out of traffic.
“Scarface is talking. He’s telling Arnold to do something. Arnold is crying. He doesn’t want to do whatever it is. The audience is pretty nervous. Phew, here comes security. Dear God! He’s got a gun! Bruce, hurry!”
Bruce floored the gas, and sped between two trucks. They both blared their horns, and flipped him off. He angrily flipped them off back.
“Bruce…” Alfred said, despairingly, “Arnold. He’s got a detonator. He says there’s a bomb under the box seats. People are trying to evacuate. Scarface is yelling at Arnold to hit the detonator. Arnold is bawling. HE’S GOT HIS FINGER ON THE DETONATOR! HURRY BRUCE!”
Bruce clenched his jaw. He could see the Reid Center. Then he saw the back part of it combust. Debris shot through the air, slamming into cars and other buildings. Bruce had to veer off the road to avoid a chunk of a brick. He immediately hopped out of his car, which suffered only a few scratches on the side, and rushed over to the Reid Center. People were pouring out of it, coughing and screaming. Bruce pushed passed them, and made his way inside. He saw four guards dead on the stage, with scars across their faces. And he saw Arnold Wesker crying in a corner. His puppet was screaming at him, and hitting him. Arnold was a small, balding old man, with wisps of white hair on the sides of his head. He had round glasses that made him look innocent. But he had just murdered a crowd of people. He deserved to be punished.
Bruce ran over, and punched Arnold across the face. That felt good. Suddenly, Arnold fired a bullet into Bruce’s side.
“I’m pulling the strings now!” Scarface cackled.
“Please! Make him stop!” Arnold wailed.
“What is wrong you?” Bruce roared, trying to smack Scarface off of Arnold’s hand. But he wouldn’t budge.
“He keeps telling me to do it! It’s not my fault! If I don’t listen he- he- he hurts me!” Arnold cried.
Something was definitely wrong with Arnold Wesker.
“Shoot him again you idiot!” Scarface howled.
“I don’t want to!” Arnold screamed.
Bruce took out a small Batrang from the inside of his slacks, and flung it at Scarface. His head came right off. Arnold collapsed, smiling through tears.
“You- you got my message,” Arnold said, “You helped me.”
“You are not healthy Arnold,” Bruce said, “You’re going away for a long time. At Arkham Asylum. But maybe the people there can help you.”
“I won’t tell anyone who you are,” Arnold promised, “As my return for you helping me. Thank you!”
Bruce picked up the Batarang, and walked away. He didn’t know why he didn’t hurt Arnold. Maybe because he truly believed his story. Arnold was mentally ill. That puppet could very well have been causing him mental trauma. But all Bruce knew was that now the police would take Arnold into custody, and Gotham would be safe from Scarface.
Bruce was sitting in the living room of Wayne Manor, relaxing. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He heard Alfred open it.
“Master Bruce! It’s Mr. Cobblepot!”
Bruce stood up, and walked to the door. Oswald was standing in the doorway, wearing a white t-shirt with the words “Gotham Zoo” on it in bright red letters. Cartoon giraffes, lions, and bears were seen in the background. He had on black cargo shorts.
“Brucey!” Oswald beamed.
“Hey Oswald,” Bruce smiled.
“Sorry for passing out on you at the gala,” Oswald said, “Had sixteen too many drinks. I thought I’d make it up to you. How about we go to the zoo? Like we did as kids?”
“You know what? I’d love to.”
Bruce was in comfortable clothes already. A blue t-shirt and orange athletic shorts. So they walked out to Oswald’s gray Nissan, and got in.
“So you’re a stock broker?” Bruce said, hoping to learn more about the transaction.
“Yup. My job hasn’t changed from three days ago, believe it or not,” Oswald chuckled.
“Nice,” Bruce said, “So have any good deals gone down lately?”
Oswald’s eyes darted back and forth, nervously. “Nah. Not much. Work is boring. Why don’t we talk about something else? Like how strange it is that you didn’t wind up sleeping with six different girls the night of the gala!”
“I guess I’m saving my game for the right girl,” Bruce shrugged.
“Since when did people like you and me care about the ‘right girl’?” Oswald cracked up.
“A lot has changed since you were away,” Bruce sighed.
“Don’t be a downer,” Oswald groaned.
“Alright!” Bruce laughed, “No downer from me today!”
“And tonight, you will have at least two girls in that bed of yours,” Oswald said, smiling mischievously.
“Obviously,” Bruce nodded.
Then, from out of nowhere, Bruce felt himself fly up. His seatbelt caught him, and yanked him back into his seat. Their car was rolling. Bruce became a bobblehead. His face was slammed against the window so hard that it broke, leaving small cuts behind. On the second roll, his head snapped back to hit the headrest. Then on the third and final roll, Bruce’s face slammed into the air bag, preventing any further injuries.
Oswald fared better. He had hit the window with less force, and it only caused a bruise.
“Bruce, you okay?” Oswald called.
“Yeah,” Bruce groaned. He spotted what had hit them. A large semi. The driver stepped out. He was wearing a white mask. And holding an AR-15.
Oswald began to climb out of the vehicle, but Bruce grabbed his ankle, and pointed to the driver. Oswald reached over to the glove compartment, opened it, and pulled out a Glock 23. He got out of the car, and aimed to pistol at the driver.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Oswald yelled.
“Nobody,” the driver said. He aimed the gun at Oswald, and pulled the trigger. Bullets slammed into Oswald’s chest, flinging him back. Bruce scrambled over to Oswald, and placed a finger against his neck. Alive. Bruce dragged him back inside the car, and tore out stuffing from the seats, covering him with it. Then, he felt the barrel of the assault rifle against the back of his head. He thrust his leg out behind him, knocking the driver off of his feet. Then, Bruce turned over, and grabbed the driver’s shoulders. He brought his feet up to the driver’s chest, and launched him into a stalled car. Then, he ran over, and bashed the driver’s face with his knee.
Suddenly, a smooth voice filled the air. Chilling. It was coming from all around.
“Citizens of Gotham. For far too long you have worshipped idols of wealth and power, while ignoring the people who had far too little to make it anywhere in life. The homeless. The forgotten. The outcasts. But now, we have come together. You will know us as we are. We are the Nobodies.”