Gotham was quiet. It seemed that it always was these days, what spirit it had beaten out of it when the ground shook and its monuments crumbled, its people retreating into silence as they took time to mourn. But that wasn’t anything new. Ever since its establishment, it had been this way. Gotham was always mourning. This time, it just had a greater loss to grieve.

The crime scene was nestled between two run-down apartment blocks in the Narrows. The buildings were arranged in such a way that the alley was tucked into the shadows, away from prying eyes; it was the perfect place for a murder, covered by a pitch-black blanket in the night. The G.C.P.D. had cordoned off the area – yellow tape blocked the only entrance, police cruisers and officers stationed in front to usher away any curious passers-by. Remote area lighting was set up around the scene, CSI’s recording evidence in coveralls and masks.

Batman stood near the police barricade, hidden in darkness. Near him was Commissioner James Gordon. He still looked like the lieutenant the Bat had met twelve years ago, determined, ever the beacon of good amid the cesspool of corruption that was Gotham. He watched the crime scene from his spot near a cruiser, back straight; he carried himself with military-like discipline, unwilling to let himself slip on the job. But Batman could smell the cigarette smoke on his trench coat, stronger than usual, and the bags under his eyes told the same story: Jim was weary. But unlike most people – unlike Batman – he shouldered that weariness and the stress that came with it, and used it to fuel himself. If anything, Jim was more purposeful than ever.

“Jim,” said Batman.

Any other person would have jumped out of their skin, to be sneaked up on like that. But Jim had been at this for twelve years. He didn’t even turn to look.

“Batman.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Three vics,” Jim began. “No identification yet, but we're working on it. Medical examiner tells me this was a precision job, and judging from the way the bodies were left I'd say this was a professional hit. Multiple contusions from blunt force trauma and several lacerations to the heads and torsos. Each had their throat slit right along the jugular. Someone with serious skill killed these men, and they did it fast enough that no defensive markings were left; these guys didn't stand a chance.”

The commissioner finally turned slightly to glance back at Batman. “Whoever did this is definitely in your area of expertise, which is why I called you in. That, and one other thing.”

Jim stepped to the side to allow the vigilante room to peer at the back end of the alley, and gestured with his right hand towards the brick wall there. “I think someone left you a message.”

One of the victims had been crucified to the wall, pinned by metal stakes. His throat opened up in a bloody smile, his head hanging low, the blood seeping into his clothing. It dripped onto the ground in steady drops, pooling four feet below him. To his right was a calling card, no doubt left by the killer, drawn in their victims’ blood –

An owl’s head, shining in red, its bloody ink trickling down the wall.

The other two victims lay on the ground below it like nothing more than discarded dolls, thrown away by a bored child who got tired of toying with them.

The owl could have meant any number of things. One was Leland Owlsley. He was a stretch; although he was based relatively close to Gotham in New York City, the crimelord didn’t have any reason to expand his operations, least of all in a city as volatile as this. And to announce his presence so boldly, leaving a message for a vigilante that he most likely didn’t think of as anything more than a myth, didn’t fit his M.O.; he prided himself on his intelligence, and despite it, he often relied on his strength in combat – he didn’t showcase the skill required to kill these men so efficiently.

He was off the suspect list, for now.

The other potential culprits were so obscure that they bordered on near impossibility or myth. The White Owl had long been incarcerated, and the Court of Owls was nothing more than a nursery rhyme told to the children of Gotham and Blüdhaven to scare them into behaving. Their Talons were nothing more than words spun into nightmarish thoughts, and although thoughts could kill… it was never this gruesome.

“Pennywise,” said Batman, holding his fingers to the button activating his comm-link. “Are you seeing this?”

The lenses over his eyes were streaming the Batcave everything he saw.

“That I can, sir,” replied Alfred.

“I need you to look for anything that might be linked to this owl symbol. People, organisations – everything. Anyone that might be skilled enough to kill these men without a struggle. Send over what you find.”

“Of course, sir.”

Batman ducked beneath the yellow tape – “CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS” – the crime scene investigators giving him a wide berth as he traversed the alley. He stopped in front of the bodies, taking in every detail. His cowl’s HUD fed him information; their approximate height and weight, the measurements of the lacerations that covered them, estimations made by programs he’d created to aid him in his investigations. The victims were tall, all above six feet; they had muscle to accompany their height, with little fat to it, looking to be around one hundred and ninety pounds in weight. Whoever killed them had to be fast and strong to leave them so defenceless – a common crook would have been faced with a challenge, the victims’ strength and number an advantage against one man with a knife.

The lacerations were long and deep. Exempting the throat cuts, they were about seven inches in length, some cutting through skin, flesh and muscle to the bone – those on the victims’ faces were smaller in comparison, little more than scratches. Weapon likely had a spear-point blade, noted Batman, Lacerations missed any vitals – purposeful. The killer wanted to cause pain. Toyed with them. Angles of the cuts suggest that they’re left-handed.

The victims’ skin broke where the contusions stained it, patches of blue amid drops of red. Blunt force likely exerted through fists. Tissue disruption indicates the use of brass knuckles. Hits were hard – the cause of death. Throats were slit post-mortem.

Jim said that the police were yet to identify the victims. It would take too long to wait for them to get a match, waste too much time – time that the killer could spend finding their next target. That was a risk Batman couldn’t take. Using the screen on his left gauntlet, he ran pictures of the victims through his own facial recognition software, containing data from the G.C.P.D., F.B.I., C.I.A., S.H.I.E.L.D. and Interpol. He got a match within seconds.

Happy Ackerman. Dutch Hancock. Koby Hillam. Small-time crooks turned big-time thugs, wanted for multiple counts of assault and battery, grand larceny and armed robbery. Their employer: Edward Nashton. The Riddler.

Currently held within Arkham Asylum.

“Pennywise. Anything?” Batman asked through his comm-link.

“I’m afraid not, sir. But you might want to beware of the Talon. Just look at how it’s left these gentlemen,” deadpanned Alfred.

Batman ducked under the tape once more, coming to stand next to Jim in the shadows. The more he ran the possibilities through his head, the more he was beginning to think that the killer was a new player. Who this new player was, he didn’t know – but the information he gathered from the crime scene should help push him in the right direction. The victims were scum, but the killer was even more so. Innocent or not, they didn’t deserve to die.

“The killer’s left-handed, likely a male,” said Batman. “He used a spear-point blade, probably a knife. All lacerations but their slit throat were made with the intent to hurt, not kill. Whoever he is, he’s skilled enough to toy with his victims.”

“Yeah,” Jim glanced up at the body pinned to the wall, the man's face permanently distorted in pain from the moment of death. "I get the distinct feeling this guy had motives other than simple murder; playing with his victims before finishing them off like some sick predator definitely fits in line with that. A killer with professional talent like this wouldn't have left us so many clues if he didn't want to, or enjoy it.”

Batman nodded, continuing. “The victims died from blunt force trauma. The killer hit hard, with technique. He used some form of brass knuckles. Slit their throats after their deaths.”

“Thanks. I appreciate you coming in on this, Batman. I'm swamped with other cases as it is, and I still have the mayor breathing down my neck about clean up operations in the lower districts...”

The older man stopped, stroking his moustache lightly as he studied Batman's crouched form. James Gordon had spent enough time around and with this particular vigilante to recognise that certain aspects were off; that something had changed ever since that incident with that clown creep last year. Batman could try and hide it behind his cape and cowl, put on a façade of indifference that was to be expected, and most people would buy. Most people thought the caped crusader was some sort of legend far beyond the understanding of mortal men. But Commissioner Gordon understood what Batman really was, and that even the so-called "Dark Knight" could be affected by horror and tragedy.

“And Barbara will be coming back from university soon, so I've got that to prepare for,” said Jim, changing the subject. “I know she loves being independent and self-reliant these days, but I'll be more than glad when she's home again. She's doing great, though. Really proud of her and the future she's making for herself. She still asks about you when we talk on the phone, you know, not that I can ever tell her much. I'm sure she'd want to hear how you're doing, though. Make sure her hero and saviour is as well off as she's been. If you want to give me something I can tell Barbara to put her at ease that you're doing alright, I'll be sure to let her know...”

“Tell her I’m fine, Jim. She has no need to worry about me.”

A giggle, somewhere in the far recesses of his mind. A pale face. An insane smile. They flashed across his vision, replacing Jim for just a split second – ushering a wince that caused the commissioner to frown.

The shadows grinned at him. “You’re lyyyyy-ing,” they sang.

“Right,” Jim said, dubious. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”

His doubt hung in the air, like a bad smell. After a few seconds, Batman broke the silence, turning away. “Take care of yourself, Jim.”

“You too, Batman.”

Batman withdrew his grapnel gun from his belt, aiming at the roof above him. He pulled the trigger, the wire shooting out with speed, its clawed end clasping onto the edge with an audible impact. Pulled taut, the gun worked to carry Batman up, whirring in the process. He climbed from the edge of the roof with ease, walking west to the corner where he’d parked the Batmobile. The night wasn’t coming to an end; not yet. He had someone he wanted to talk to first. The Riddler was about to get an unexpected visit.

A camera flashed on the neighbouring rooftop. It went unnoticed by Batman, its owner smiling in the evening gloom.

“Perfect.”

Nestled under the shadow of Nevado de Toluca just eighty kilometers due west of Mexico City lies a town. This town does not appear on any map and any GPS will not be able to route to it. Here resting upon soil enriched by the very fires of the Earth, atop a plateau nearly one hundred and eighty two meters tall, the elite and powerful do business. Away from the roar of the city, the prying eyes of journalists and rivals things revert to an almost simpler time. A time where success was only prohibited only by your own ambitions.

The walls of this invisible town are high, sculpted from red tinged clay cracked from general wear. Juxtaposed against sagging battlements and embrasures meant for cannon were very modern guards armed with high-caliber rifles and tactical gear watching over the landscape below. A simple dirt road snaked its way up and through the main gates where it morphed into finely carved cobble streets. Despite the shining lamp posts whose electricity was drawn from the geothermal currents beneath them and finely crafted western architecture out of a Renaissance villa, the town was much like any other mountain town. There were farmers, shepherds, weavers, and drunks, children frolicked and played in the streets. Many of these simple people had family or they themselves worked in the building which required all the additional accoutrements as it may be.

The building known simply as Un Hotel stood at the apex of the conically rising town. Built far back and away from the clay walls and surrounded by gardens and terraces which commanded a magnificent view from any vantage point that could've been desired. Despite or maybe because of its fine grace and beauty there was something. A certain clinical stateliness pervaded the premise. It was not a house of pleasure or relaxation. It was a house of business, desolate splendor refined to a point. That elite spas and saunas were barely touched, the picturesque mirror-like water of the Olympic pool remained undisturbed and untouched. The only active portion seemed to be the conference rooms and the bar were drinks were poured with a heavy hand.

It was here as twilight faded into night without notice that two men sat on the eastern terrace drinking pulques. Or at least one of them was, the other was sipping at his water splashed with lime as he was still on the job. They listened as the sounds of the nightly activities of the town floated their way up to them. The mariachi band played at the open window of the local cantina: eight violins, two trumpets, and a guitarrón. The whimsical splash of music mixed with the interlaced spurts of laughter and merriment. Harold 'Happy' Hogan pushed the glass bottle of pulques towards Tony Stark who poured himself another drinking watching his friend and bodyguard intently.

"So that went well." Hogan prompted.

What 'went well' was a deal hashed out with the Policía Federal to sell them so new equipment. A non-lethal pulsed energy projectile used to incapacitate targets and bring them in without having to pump them full of bullets.

"I guess,"

"Mhm?"

"It's just," Tony started "There was no fun in it. They didn't try to haggle or ask for a lower price. They just saw the demonstration and ordered a thousand. No resistance at all."

Hogan cocked an eyebrow upwards at Tony. "Isn't that more of a testament towards your engineering than anything else. I mean the quality speaks for itself. Saved our ass more than enough times in the Suits."

“Doesn’t mean things can’t be fun.”

They fell back into a comfortable silence intermittently broken by the sound of Happy swishing around the ice in his glass. Tony gazed downward at the pool as it reflected the dark sky. Here far away from the city it spilled outward like a broken geode, a thousand different stars and galaxies. There light scattered and bled away into the shifting reflecting darkness of the pool. The sounds of the town below muted as the band played a softer ballad with only a lone mournful trumpet filling the air. The reverie was broken as the sound of Tony's phone vibrating snapped the pair of men back to attention.

He fished the phone out of his five thousand dollar designer suit pants and looked down. He looked at Happy. "It's your ex-wife."

"Tell her I said hi."

Tony shook his head as he sat up legs quaking slightly from the pulques. "It's real strange that you two on such amicable turns. Most of my exes want to see me dead."

"It's called being an adult Tony. You should try it sometime."

Tony's response was to flip Hogan the finger and keep on walking. He fished a pair of seemingly innocuous sunglasses from his jacket pocket and placed them upon his face. Pressing a small button on the left hand side there was a flash and soon he saw the executive suite of Stark Tower, Virginia "Pepper" Potts standing in front of him arms crossed even as the heat of the night never left him.

Most would of been surprised of the hologram of Tony appearing out of nothing. For Pepper it was just another evening. "How'd it go?"

"Excellent of course. Our lawyer types just need to talk to their lawyer types and bing, bam, boom we are in business."

"That's good to hear. I was almost worried that you'd find a way to mess it all up again."

Tony pantomimed getting shot in the heart. "And when do I ever mess things up?"

Pepper sighed. "Tony,"

"But-"

"Tony."

"How was I supposed to know the President of Finland was allergic to peanuts!"

"Because I put it in the report. That you promised to read."

"Tastefully moving the topic of conversation along, how's it going?" Tony ask as Hogan in the 'real world' watched him precariously navigate the perimeter of the pool.

"Well productions at....."

Tony rolled his eyes as he listened to Pepper begin to list off the business statistics of Stark Enterprises.

"Pepper. Pepper. Pepper!" Tony began finally getting her to taper off her tangent. "I don't need to know how the company is doing. It has my name on it, of course it is doing well. I'm asking how you are doing."

"In that case," Pepper began. "I work for an incompetent man-child, I work twenty out of twenty four hours a day, I caught a grey hair this morning. So really everything is going swimmingly."

"Sounds like an average day," Tony quipped. "How's 'Project R' going?"

At the mention of this she actually managed to smile. "I mean the new suit is fantastic and who ever would've thought doing your other job would be just as easy as doing the first."

"Love you too."

"Goodnight Mister Stark."

"See you Ms. Potts."

Tony tucked the VR glasses away and made his way back over to the opposite side of the pool where Happy was still sitting. Tony slumped back into the chair the wooden creaking in protest as he did. He finished the last of the pulques in his glass in one go before he regarded Happy. "She says she wants you dead."

"Hardy har har," Happy stated, pushing himself upward before turning towards the spotless glass doors that lead back into the hotel proper. "It's getting late and we have an early start tomorrow. Might as well hit the sack."

"Yeah you go ahead. I need to get more sleeping aid before I call it." He replied, gesturing towards the empty bottle of pulques. Harold shook his head but left without a comment, knowing that arguing with Tony especially when he had a few drinks in him wouldn't get him anywhere.

After indulging himself in the warm air and buzz of the alcohol pulsing through his veins, Tony stood up and made his way inside. Crossing the threshold a chill ran down his spine, temperature regulated constantly at precisely fifteen point fifteen degrees celsius. He walked down lonesome marble hallways,painfully aware of the mechanical whirr of the cameras that followed his every move. There seemed to be no actual security in the Un Hotel only the cameras.

He still didn't know his room number eight something something but he did know every twist and turn which lead him to the lounge and more importantly the bar.and none the more important. He navigated his way through the array of tables and chairs towards the bar where he shifted his way atop of a bar stool. He ordered a paloma from the bar and idly began sketching plans for a new reactor that he was currently tampering with.

Amidst the encouragement of the cocktail and the particular issues of doing advance level physics on a small square of paper with a shitty hotel pen, he didn't notice the sound of heels tapping across the floor as they approached him. He didn't notice the distinctive sound of swishing fabric. He didn't notice until she cleared her throat behind him. A career as a superhero made it so that Tony wasn't easily surprised. He put down his pen and slowly turned over his shoulder towards the sound.

Ink black hair fell to about her waist without a strand falling out of line. A simple black dress that halted slightly above the knees. Maybe ten no twenty years younger than him and most of the other stragglers left in the bar she still managed to command the room with a level of cool confidence. She was beautiful definitely but in the type of beauty that reminded Tony of some art piece in a museum, everything about her stated feel free to look but don’t touch.

As their eyes met she gave a small smile and offered a hand.

“Whitney Frost, I have an offer we’d like to make you Mr. Stark.”