Tobacconist's Club, Gotham City, June 23d, 1987
The Tobacconist's Club wasn't exactly what most people thought of as a "landmark". It wasn't a tourist destination, nor would anything as plebian as vacationing middle class families ever be let inside even if it had been. It wasn't tied to the identity of Gotham City like the massive Statue Of Justice that overlooked the Gotham Harbor, or the iconic skyline with the famous Wayne and Wonder Tower buildings, or more and more commonly in recent days, the sign of the Bat-Signal in the sky above the city. Yet, obscure as it might have been, the Club was an unavoidable part of the city's history. Founded in the late 1800's as an exclusive club for the patriarchs and heirs of Gotham's most distinguished families, it had almost every person of note pass through it's halls. Waynes, Cobblepots, Thornes, Elliots and of course, Falcones...
Carmine Falcone, the last, and arguably the greatest, at least if you asked him, of the powerful mob family, was not having a good week. Or a good month. Hell, so far the whole damn year was a wash! Seated in one of the luxurious leather chairs that dotted the main lounge, a half-empty tumbler of imported scotch in one hand, an expensive cuban cigar in his mouth, Falcone found that not even the exclusive luxuries around him could pull his mind away from his troubles for long. Tapping his fingers against the armrest, he gazed out through the large window next to him, out to the bustling city streets outside, and let his mind wander.
He didn't know why the aborted robbery at Ace Chemicals from the previous night bothered him so much. It wasn't even a big operation, any loot it would have brought in would've been pocket change, especially considering how much his main line of business were hemorraging profits thanks to the damned Commissioner and his pet rodent! Falcone sneered, his teeth grinding into the cigar in his mouth. Two years ago he'd been the king of Gotham! Untouchable, unbeatable, someone who could've used the mayor as a footstool if he felt like it, and now look at him! Operations that were once an afterthought now blew up in his face before even getting off the ground! He hadn't bothered to pay attention to the excuses of his own men, but from what little he did hear, some no-name gang had tried to pull the heist before they had gotten into position, and blown the whole thing. He didn't care for excuses, he cared for results, and he'd made that quite clear. If they didn't succeed in the next robbery at Axis Chemicals, he'd-
His thoughts trailed off as something caught his eye on the street outside.
Around the corner on the other side, a large Cadillac slid into view, the luxury car moving smoothly like a jungle beast made out of metal. Not that Falcone was unused to Cadillacs, he owned several himself, but there was something unique about this one. There was something slightly different about the dimensions of the vehicle, and he quickly realised what it was - the car was armored up like a high-end tank! With eyes experienced from a lifetime in organized crime, Falcone took in the sight of the Cadillac as it rolled down the street, analyzing every detail. Just from looking at it, he could tell the metal was reinforced, and so were the tires. Nothing short of military-grade weaponry were going to so much as scratch the paint job. The darkened windows showed no hint at the occupants inside, and Falcone would bet what was left of his empire that they were bulletproof as well.
A flash of curiosity stirred in his mind, mixed with the paranoia that had kept him alive all these years. Any mobster with a brain in his head had some protection when they were out and about, Falcone's consisted of three very large men with itchy trigger fingers who were currently seated at the back of the room, partaking in the luxuries the Club offered, just a fringe benefit of being on the Falcone payroll. But an armored car like that blew anything Falcone himself owned out of the water. Whoever was inside was either very paranoid, or had some very persistant enemies. Was it some newcomer trying to make a play for Gotham, some rival mob boss smelling blood in the water now that Falcones grip was slipping? It was the most likely explanation, but it still didn't explain why Falcone hadn't heard anything about a new player in town. Even with the problems his organization had been dealing with, they had eyes and ears everywhere, yet there hadn't been a peep about this. And whoever it was clearly didn't worry about being seen, the Cadillac might as well have been a massive middle finger to potential enemies.
And then, the strangest thing happened...
Near the end of the block, right by the intersection to the next street, there was a stop sign warning incoming vehicles to slow down. As the Cadillac approached the intersection, rather than stopping as it should have, the driver kept going... and as it passed the sign, it seemed to disappear as it passed, like it was passing behind an entire building rather than a metal pole!
Carmine half-rose from his chair, not believing his eyes, staring dumbfounded at the spot where the Cadillac should have been, yet was now only occupied by empty space. He blinked hard, as if the car would somehow materialize from nowhere, but it remained stubbornly absent. Another car came rolling along the street, passing the stop sign with no problem and idled in the spot that should have been occupied by the armored Cadillac. Carmine felt as if he'd just woken up from a strange dream as he kept staring at the street, like the mysterious car would just reappear any moment, but nothing happened. Outside the summers day simply went on, the citizens of Gotham happily bustling along the sidewalk, as if the Cadillac had never existed...
"Mr. Falcone? Everything alright?"
The voice brought Carmine Falcone back to reality, and he looked across the room to where one of his bodyguards had noticed his boss staring out the window like he'd seen a ghost pass by, the other two looking up from their cigars and drinks at the sudden movement. Carmine shook his head, pushing the Cadillac to the back of his mind.
"It's... it's fine, Tony. Just been working too hard, I think. Go bring the car around, would you? I think I'd rather head home..."
.......
The Narrows, Gotham City, July 2nd, 1987
The Narrows were a haunted place, it was something anyone unfortunate enough to call it home would agree to. Not haunted by ghosts like some cartoon haunted house, though that was certainly a possibility too, few people died peaceful deaths in The Narrows. No, what haunted this small piece of Hell on Earth was despair. The desperation and misery of it's inhabitants seem to hang heavy in the air like a noxious smog, forcing it's way into the lungs of the citizens, poisoning everything it touched. The Narrows stood out against the cityscape of Gotham like a rotting tooth, a festering sore rising from the city's skin.
That's just the way Cornelius Stirk liked it.
Oh, how Cornerlius loved this place. Where others wilted and shriveled away like dying flowers under the crushing misery that hung over this place, Stirk seemed to thrive on it like a shark in a vast ocean. The fear and despair he saw on each face he passed on the street was like watching a masterpiece being painted, a symphony being conducted. He considered himself a bit of a conneisseur of fear, in more ways than one. See, Cornelius Stirk had a secret. He had a power, a power no one else knew about, not even the doctors at Arkham Asylum where he had spent his teenaged years after an.... unfortunate misunderstanding with one of his high school classmates.
Cornelius Stirk was a telepath, and a very unique sort too. Nothing as boring as simple mindreading like some fortune telling charlatan. No, Stirk could make the unfortunate victims of his attention see him as whatever they feared the most. An abusive parent, a rabid dog, a diseased vagrant with weeping syphilis sores, or something as paltry as a scary monster from a book or a movie, it didn't matter. The power would pull the image from your mind, and leave you helpless in witless terror. Which was a good thing, because the power came at a price...
Oh, those quacks at Arkham had told him it was a "delusion", that as long as he doped himself with their useless pills, the hunger would go away. Ridiculous, as if Stirk wouldn't know his own body, it's... cravings. He'd thrown away the pills as soon as he'd been released from the Asylum of course, he knew what he needed, and knew how to get it.
A human heart, that would nourish him. That would keep him alive, and fuel the power inside him. That was another reason to love The Narrows as he did, it was filled with piggies ripe for the slaughter, meals just walking around that no one who mattered would miss. And there was a meal waiting for him right up in his apartment. He'd grabbed the girl yesterday, some sad-faced child with sunken eyes and ratty pigtails, just walking down the sidewalk, not looking where she was going. She'd been locked up in his apartment since then, stewing in the fears he'd pulled from her mind, preparing her heart, flavoring it...
Stirk felt himself drooled as he rushed up the stairs in the rotting hovel he'd made into a home for himself, up the landing towards the tiny, one-room apartment where his meal waited for him. The knife, heavy in his coat pocket, ready for the harvest. He fumbled with the keys as he approached the door, clumsily turning the lock, and rushing inside, slamming the door behind him. Grinning, he locked the door again, just in case, and turned-
The room was empty. The chair he'd left the girl tied to was tipped over, the ropes in shreds around the fallen furniture, like a wild animal had torn her loose.
And the closet door was open.
"So nice...." said a voice as if someone was speaking through rotten cloth "So nice.... soooo niiiice...."
In his last moments, as the closet door began to creak open wider, and something moved inside, Cornelius Stirk realised how wrong he'd been. He didn't understand fear. He hadn't understood it at all...
....
Wayne Manor, Gotham City, July 4th, 1987
Alfred Pennyworth never missed Thomas and Martha Wayne more than on occasions like this...
Around him, the party was already in full swing, despite the early hour. The cream of Gotham high society had gathered, as they did whenever the occasional called for it, and the Waynes had always held parties that were the talk of the town. Their Fourth Of July ball was no different. Despite the warmth of the summer evening outside, the manor was comfortably cool, courtesy of the central air system, and the halls were alive with music and laughter, which seemed so rare these days.
And yet, the absence of Thomas and Martha lent an emptiness to the whole thing, as if he was watching an old photo of past glory, as if he was watching a ghostly ball in some Victorian ghost story, rather than a party of real, living people. As he strolled through the crowd of richly dressed men and women, keeping an eye on the hired staff, making sure the refreshments were all in order, refilling champagne glasses as he moved, he let himself glance over towards Bruce, who was currently entertaining a few guests, two beautiful women on his arms.
He had his Bruce Wayne, Playboy mask on, as he always did for these celebrations, and it ached Alfred to see him this way, to watch him play a brainless fop to cover for his real self. The familiar, dark-skinned man with the greying hair who was standing with the group was likely the only person in the whole room who knew the real Bruce Wayne, aside from himself. He wondered if Lucius Fox felt the same way he did about watching the act unfold.
There was a bustle over by the main doors, and the crowd parted slightly to allow the newcomers room to enter. Alfred quickly recognized the man who'd just arrived, dressed in a grey suit with black pinstripes, his dark hair curled in an almost boyish tussle. Harvey Dent looked around the room, smiling stiffly as he caught the eye of Bruce Wayne, who quickly began to make his way over to him, dragging his two female companions with him. Next to Dent, a pretty but slightly built woman with long, black hair and deep, dark eyes, pressed closer to him, her arm around his. Alfred vaguely remembered her as Dent's wife, though her name escaped him.
As Bruce broke into conversation with a reluctant Dent, Alfred felt an odd sensation, like a cold breeze had just blown across his neck. There was movement in the corner of his eye, and a hand snatched a champagne glass from the tray he was carrying. A man Alfred was almost certain he'd never seen in his life walked out in front of him, carrying the glass lazily in one hand as he turned his head and smiled, showing two rows of too-white teeth that made Alfred shudder for reasons he couldn't explain. The man was tall, with a thin build and a chiseled face that were just beginning to show signs of age, with neatly combed hair that had begun to recede and slowly turn from brown to grey. What struck Alfred as strange was the tuxedo he was wearing, an oddly outdated style with a white bowtie that Alfred remembered having gone out of fashion at least a decade before. And there was something else, something he couldn't quite put his hands on...
"Great party, isn't it?"
With that simple sentence, not waiting for an answer, the man turned around, and disappeared into the crowd of revelers, not bothering with so much as a glance back. It wasn't until much later that evening, as the party had begun to die down, and Master Wayne excused himself as he had to go deal with "prior engagements", that Alfred found his thoughts drifting back to the man, that he realised what he'd missed before.
For some strange reason, there'd been a few flakes of confetti on the mans shoulders, the colorful bits of paper not moving an inch even as he walked. Which was odd, Alfred knew for a fact that confetti had not been part of the decorations used for the manor ball... It was such a silly detail, but for whatever reason, it stuck out in Alfreds mind, and he thought of the unfamiliar man again.
"Great party, isn't it..?"
Alfred Pennyworth tried to ignore the chill he felt at those words. He had duties to perform after all. A good butlers work was never done...883