(A/N: Happy New Years!)
(Edited with Grammarly on 12/4/25)
Time was funny, and people would be awfully surprised by how it helped the mind settle into place.
A full hour passed, sixty minutes, thirty-six hundred seconds, or twelve hundred heartbeats that Albert could feel running through his legs from the midnight black feline that made herself at home in his lap. That's how long it took for that numbness, that gray curtain, to begin pulling away from his mind.
'Why are we confronting them here?' It didn't make much sense to him. Thinking back on it, they could've set up in another building and just snapped a photo of the monster before turning it all in to the police. With some time snapping pictures of the… 'trophies' and their 'playroom', it would've been enough to at least get a visit from the police. If not a direct visit, some calls to their family members would've done the trick as well. Doing that would've given both of them a degree of separation, a shield that would make it so this person wouldn't try hunting them down later in some attempt at silencing this secret.
Now in a better state of mind, he could admit that he was in shock. Still was, but no longer to such a point where he just moved on autopilot. That fog was lifting, color filling back into the world. Washing away that monochrome nothingness. Not fully, but enough to make his head not feel so congested.
Taking a deep breath, he felt deeper into himself.
What exactly did he want from this confrontation?
'I want them to stop. To get some help before they actually killed someone.' A big part, but even he could tell that wasn't all; it felt far too hollow. 'They already killed someone. Multiple. I want them to stop killing kittens and to receive some sort of retribution for taking their lives.'
But how exactly did he plan on doing that?
'I don't know.' That was the real question. How was he going to stop them from killing again? This person had already acquired a taste for that sense of power, and going back now would require something drastic. 'We could just...kill them.'
But that idea was already out of his head before it even had the chance to fully settle in place. Eventually, he knew that choice would be taken from him. Someone would force his hand, and he would have blood on his hand then. But for as long as he could forestall his first kill, the better. And besides, committing outright murder would set him right in the cross-hairs of the Bat Family.
Speaking of them…
'We could give them the Wayne Special.' While the big man enforced his no-killing rule on all those under him, no matter how vile the villain, he in no way condemned an absolute beatdown. The type of beating that would leave someone drinking through a straw for the next couple of months...But that wouldn't work for him either here. Those caped crusaders could get away with it because their faces were covered. Identities hidden from the very people who would want revenge for their rather painful recovery. And last he checked, neither he nor the blonde had anything to cover their features up. A slip-up on his part. At the mention of his companion, his eyes slid over to the blank-faced Slayer.
Angeline was trying to put on a tough face, arms crossed and leaning against the wall like a bouncer just waiting for someone to start trouble. But it was clear she was shaken by what they saw in that dumpster. Not enough where he would need to worry about a sudden flare-up of violent anger, but enough to know she needed to be around those closest to her.
He wanted to tell her to go home, that he could finish up the rest of this, but had to stop himself with the cold truth.
'I have no idea if I can handle this person by myself.'
If she weren't there, the investigator would have no choice but to leave an intimidating note while snapping a few photos of the perp as blackmail material before slipping off into the night. A better plan, he knew, the blonde would not go for. She'd seen too much, saw what was going on in that building, and could guess what was going to happen if they hadn't gotten there in time.
She wasn't going anywhere, even if he skedaddled.
"There's no point in just sitting around." Albert rose to his feet, forcing the feline to leap off into the dim room with an absolutely venomous side-eye sent at the human that dared to disturb her rest.
"I'm not leaving." The blonde almost growled, anger snapping down at the horrific memories drowning her. Sending him a very familiar glare, the same one she'd worn on that night they first met. "You can leave, but I'm not."
"I'm going to look for some evidence." While he did possess the creep's trophy box, it wouldn't hurt to gather more. After all, there was never such a thing as 'too' much evidence. It should be fine to snoop around, but that didn't mean he was going to be stupid about this. "We should stick together, just in case."
"…."
Tired blues flickered with some humorous amusement before the weight of the day came crashing in. Nonetheless, the blonde pushed herself off the wall. An answer in itself.
Holding his handgun ready, he forced himself into the much darker hallway. Hand reaching out, his fingers fumbled around for the light switch that had to be there before flicking it on and off to no effect. Figures. It would've been more of a surprise if any power had run through that building in years. Fumbling in his pocket for a moment, he whipped out his phone once more and turned on its flashlight. A white beam came shooting out, cutting into the misty darkness and finally giving him a better look than the ambient sunlight leaking in through the busted window.
With all things considered, the building itself showed obvious signs of cleaning. And peeking into the first room, he could see the supplies used to do so. A simple broom and dustpan, a large bottle of bleach that looked to be around half empty, and a mop.
Passing by, he peered around yet another door-frame and frowned.
'That was fast.'
There, in the middle of a room no larger than a closet, was a wooden table. Being below waist height, it was easy for him to get a good look at its details. And it really wasn't a pleasant sight. Across its surface, multiple claw marks could be seen. Not large ones, but many smaller. Each in their own random pattern, but if that wasn't enough to tell him what this...altar was, the pair of worn and dark brown, oversized leather gardening gloves, covered in similar marks, that hung on a nearby hook did exactly that.
Not touching anything, he leaned forward and snapped a few photos of each. Even that close, the heavy scent of bleach hit him. Telling him any blood sample he could've collected had long since been washed away.
He could picture the scene vividly in his mind's eye, the terror and helplessness. And the confusion, most of all. What had any of them done to deserve this fate? Pulling through his nose, he took a step back. Exiting the room and running into the blonde. They didn't need to say anything; they both knew what had gone down there.
Continuing further down the hall, the area suddenly opened up into a rather large and spacious storefront. There, he found a few items of note. All of which were neatly placed.
A rather hefty-looking inverted generator, a portable electric lamp, a few books, a cushion for someone to relax in, five individual gallons of water, and two plastic baskets.
Before crossing the space, he scanned around the room one final time. Taking note of the pair of boots resting beside the heavily locked door, and crouching down to properly look at everything.
The books he found were primarily horror novels with a few autobiographies sprinkled here or there. Each paperback was showing signs of heavy use, if the creases amongst their spines were anything to go by.
Albert reached a hand and snapped up the very first book. On its cover, a woman gripping her own throat with wide and terrified eyes pleaded to the reader. Her brown hair mangled and wild, dark bruises already forming beneath her own fingers. Flipping through, he found every part of the interior written on and annotated heavily. Circled, underlined, and arrows pointing towards particular 'riveting' details.
The writing itself was crisp and clearly legible, with not even a lean to the letters. Matching the seemingly meticulous person. That in itself wasn't odd, but the contents were.
Grip gently first, let them fall into complacency.
That line was annotated heavily around a particular grisly part in the pages. At the beginning of the passage, it could've been considered steamy. The start of a smut scene that quickly turned into something much darker and chilling. Something the book's owner enjoyed greatly, or at least read over multiple times, if the amount of annotations practically surrounding it was anything to go by.
Putting that aside, he continued to sift through the stack. But only finding more of the same. A few autobiographies on serial killers that specialized in strangulation, a medical book, and a scant remaining fiction novels that followed a similar theme.
He stood, a grim expression plastered across his face.
It seemed he found their 'research'.
'Her research.' A glance at the twin baskets, side by side, was enough to clue him in on the gender of their perp. In one of the baskets, a set of neatly folded clothes lay. A simple set of jean overalls, a heavy, dark blue long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of individually wrapped socks. Two differently colored cloth scrunchies lay atop the stack. One brown and the other black. Reaching in, he held them up and found the measurements. Size four, women's. Maybe it was a stretch to put a gender on this unknown; it could just be someone throwing on whatever. But he honestly didn't believe so.
So far, this person seemed to be a very meticulous individual. A person of habit and cleanliness. There was no way they would be careless with their 'uniform'. It didn't fit. They obviously changed clothes before doing the deed, presenting this outfit as their 'work' clothes. A way for her to separate this life from her other one.
Maybe that's how she dealt with the immortality of it all? By pretending that it wasn't actually her doing this? Now, all that's missing to complete this skin is…
"Hey, Albert?" Angeline spoke up from behind him, voice low and confused. Turning, he saw her standing before a rather peculiar item. "I think you're going to want to see this."
Indeed, walking over, he stood side by side with the blonde. Just staring ahead, the puzzle pieces clicking into place. There, hanging on a makeshift hook, was a heavily embellished mask. Gray in color, with narrow slits for eyes, a pointed pink nose, long whiskers that drooped under its own weight, a pair of rounded ears, and a pair of buckteeth. Pulling his phone out, he realized something unnerving.
What he'd once thought of as a coloring technique to make the surface look as if it had fur was in fact actual fur. But not from a singular coat. Stitch marks could be seen across its 'face'. Multiple differing pelts glued in place. All differing shades of gray.
It smelled awful. Reeking of sweat and musk, he had no intentions of touching the thing. Even staying close to it was enough for his nose to curl up in disgust. Nonetheless, he snapped a few photos just to be thorough.
Now the set was complete, as was his desire to continue poking around. And glancing to the side, he could see a mirroring expression on her face as well.
"We have enough."While it was just a few photos for now, it painted a rather macabre scene. Not enough to really implicate anyone, but it could at least be used to narrow down the suspects. "Let's go wait for our...little mouse."
***
Albert ignored the rather incredulous look being sent his way; there really wasn't much of a choice if they didn't want to be ambushed in an alley one day. She might be grumbling now, but these extra precautions would surely be worth it in the future.
The blonde, now wearing his black jacket with its hood covering those identifying locks. Arms crossed, she scowled openly. And with that 'warpaint' covering her face, glossy pink lines crawling down her cheek in stylized swirls, across her forehead, along her jawline, and around her eye sockets, it made the usually fierce-looking Slayer look like some sort of raider.
Intimidating, yes, but it also drew attention away from anything that might make it easy for someone to remember...at least that was the hope. There wasn't a lot he could do about her blues.
He swiped a small, barely damp brush down his chin. Going over a few more to make extra sure, his eyes glanced at his reflection, the best he could using the ambient light. There were differing marks on his face. Across his forehead, a thorn-like crown was drawn in pink. Those heavy bags were covered by the same color, outlining those piercing orbs that caused so much discomfort to people. Down the bridge of a large nose, it split off in twin paths to meet up with a continuous line along his jawline. Ending with three quick strokes on the very edge of his bony chin.
Without changing his expression, he handed the now thoroughly used-up bottle back to its rightful owner. No larger than his thumb, he was a bit surprised they were able to get so much out of it. But from her ever-deepening scowl, there was no way she was going to appreciate him saying that.
"You owe me a new one," Angeline grumbled, forcing the lip gloss bottle down into her sweatpants. "Did you really need to use all of it?"
"I had to make sure it was thick enough, else our skin would show through." She had taken a lot of convincing to even allow him to do this little scheme. "We needed it, and I will get you another."
"But did the cat need it too?"
From her quick response it was good to see her become more animated.
Their midnight black client looked up lazily from his lap, her ears tips tinged with heavy pink. A lazy paw swiped towards the blonde before it fell, those large yellow eyes drooping back to their previously shut position.
Okay, maybe he had gone a bit overboard, but in his defense, there really wasn't a lot to do other than wait. They'd been located in that same cursed building for what felt like actual hours by now. And with all that waiting around, an anxious feeling filled him. He had felt too exposed, felt like they were opening themselves up to some form of revenge from this person.
At first, he'd been able to force that anxiety down, but eventually it had grown to an unmanageable level. At first, he suggested switching jackets. A minor thing, but hopefully it would both cover up her blonde hair and hide his body shape enough that pointing him out in a crowd wouldn't be easy. But even that hadn't been enough, until she brought out a tube of lip gloss, he'd gotten an idea.
While he wouldn't be able to make them look like completely different people as he would with his kit at home, war paint was historically a great way to both hide their appearance and to apply pressure to their opponent. A subtle, psychological thing.
An edge he felt they were going to need.
Now back near the cages, he had the blonde leaning up against the wall with him, sitting with a cat in his lap and a gun in hand. In the dim building, shadows creeping across their painted faces, they actually looked like a legit threat.
As he sat there, something tripped at the very edge of his awareness. Footsteps, human, could be heard. Not due to how loud the steps were, no, but from how deathly quiet this part of the city was. Without speaking, he held up a fist. The sign that they had company.
In one motion, the blonde stood. Using her own shadow to block a majority of the ambient light leaking through the busted open window. She wasn't a particularly large person like Michael, so it only partially helped. But that was what they needed.
Stilling, Albert's heart thumped loudly in his chest as the footsteps grew audibly. Closer and closer, until finally, they stood right outside the front door. Something hit the cement floor, and the sound of metal chain links clanking together. Taking every bit of control to not flinch, his eyes remained focused.
Just as the lock clicked, he allowed himself to fall back. Allowed those scales to shift into place, rustling in his innermost ear. Posture loosening, fingers lost their iron-like grip on his weapon, eyes growing harder, and hand reaching up to gently rub at the cat's back.
He wasn't nervous. Wasn't scared. Everything was under his control, and there was nothing anyone could do about it but to play his game. To dance to his tune, for there was no other way to go forward. There would be no compromise, no false promises here. His word was law, and they would have no choice but to bend.
Those pairs of inquisitive gazes fell off him like water on stone.
Just as that door creaked open, a lazy, condescending smirk slammed into place. Locking the image in place.
A beam of light speared into the building, an outline easily visible from down the hall. The person froze in place. Their eyes instantly locked onto his. A second passed before they fell to his muddy shoes, and rage soon overtook them. It was a primal thing, he could tell. A sudden and uncontrollable flash of something dark and wrathful.
In that moment, he could tell all they wanted to do was wrap their hands around his neck and choke the life right out of him. But there was a problem. Two, to be specific. One, the other shadow looming over his shoulder. A silent but intense presence pressing down on the air itself with disdainful eyes. And the other problem? The barrel held aloft pointed directly at them.
"Come." His voice was rich, smooth, and refined. Motioning forward, it was obvious to all that it was not a suggestion. A command through and through. Under the inky black muzzle, the outline had no choice but to obey. Carefully, they held their hand up and slowly began to crouch down to the boots beside the door. Only to stop with a shake of his head, they couldn't afford for them to get comfortable. Keeping them off their feet was better.
Gulping audibly, the person walked closer. A plastic bag full of cleaning supplies in hand. And as they got closer, he finally got a good look at the perp.
She looked young, around their age. So between fifteen and seventeen. Her oversized jacket hung off one shoulder, jeans that flared out at the ankle, and a pair of bright red sneakers, with brown hair tied up into a neat bun and pale skin with sharp cheekbones evident to see. Shorter than average and on the thinner side, she didn't look like the sort of person to strangle kittens to death.
In fact, the girl looked normal. Average, in fact. Someone would pass in a library and not even look back. But, again, the eyes were the windows to the soul. And those brown orbs had no soul.
Like glass orbs, they glared ahead. Burning a hole right through him.
Not that he cared about her displeasure.
Just as she passed a certain distance, well outside of arm's reach, he commanded once more.
"Stop." His voice rang out, bored and lazy. Seeing her stop, standing there above him, he didn't like that look in her eye. What right did she have to look down at him? "Sit."
She looked around behind her, looking for a chair that they all knew wasn't there. Face burning, the girl sat before them on the ground. Her orbs were darting every which way, but landed firmly on the now empty cages. In a panic, she then looked at the wooden box at his feet.
"What's your name?"
Albert wanted this on record, and he could feel Angeline move behind him, her phone at hand to record the whole conversation. The girl looked at the camera before licking her lips and answering.
"Marceline-"
"Cute." It was demeaning and not a compliment. The balls had to start lying immediately. And she probably would've gotten away with it, too, if only the people she was dealing with weren't close friends with the same girl she just tried to frame. "Try again."
But despite being caught in her lie, she only bit down harder on her lip and refused to answer. Even with a gun pointed at her, she didn't seem like she was going to budge.
"Her name is Charlotte Wagner." Angeline almost growled out, and he knew if the blonde wasn't responsive for getting all this on camera, she would've shoved a boot straight through Charlotte's chest. "She goes to Gotham City High School."
So Marceline's group and she all go to the same school? Interesting, then it suddenly made a lot more sense as to why Charlotte tried to throw the Psychopomp's name through the mud; there must be some history there. But all that could wait.
"Well, Charlotte." He lulled, scratching his feline companion atop her head in a similar way to some vaudevillians. Over the top, maybe, but it got the point across. "Let's talk."
And he watched as that defiance flowed out of her like a popped balloon, that smirk grew a hair bit more real.