When Marco and Darnell got back to the car, they found a Black Mask enforcer lying unconscious on the pavement. Edward stood nearby, examining his cane.
"What happened?" Marco asked, scanning the area for threats.
"Nothing dramatic. One of Black Mask's patrol spotted the car and came to investigate." Edward lifted his cane slightly. "I tested the holographic projection feature. He got scared and fainted."
"Ha! What a pussy." Darnell was still riding the adrenaline high from the factory. "You should've seen the monster we just took down. I dropped it with just a few shots."
"Of course," Edward said with a slight smile. "Your heroism is well-known throughout the East End precinct. As long as..."
His expression changed abruptly. He pointed behind Marco and Darnell. "What's that?!"
Both officers spun around, weapons coming up instinctively.
Standing in the darkness about ten meters away was something that looked like it had crawled out of a medieval painting of hell. A creature with a goat's head and enormous bat wings. Its eyes burned like coals in a furnace, and behind it swayed a long, forked tail that lashed the air slowly.
"Shit!"
Darnell let out a strangled yell and jumped straight onto Marco's back, wrapping his arms and legs around him like a terrified kid clinging to his dad.
"Get off!" Marco stumbled, trying to keep his balance. "What the fuck are you doing?!"
"Run! RUN, man, it's the Jersey Devil!" Darnell's grip tightened. "I'm not dying like this!"
"What? The what?" Marco tried to pry Darnell's arms loose, but his partner had locked on with desperate strength. "There's nothing there! Get the fuck off me!"
"It's right there! Look at it!"
Marco managed to twist his head around to look. The creature was still standing there, wings spread, tail swishing... And then it flickered, just for a second.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." He stopped struggling. "Ed."
"Ah." Edward cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Yes. That's also a projection. My apologies."
"A projection?!" Darnell finally loosened his grip and slid off Marco's back, staring at the creature. "That's not real?"
Edward raised his cane and pressed something. A thin beam of light shot out from the tip, and the monster's image wavered, then stabilized.
"It's a holographic emitter I've been developing. Works best in low-light conditions." He moved his hand to block the beam, and part of the creature disappeared, revealing the alley wall behind it. "In daylight, it's obvious. But at night? The brain fills in the gaps."
Darnell took two cautious steps forward, studying the projection. The Jersey Devil stared back at him with burning eyes, completely motionless except for that slowly swaying tail.
"Fuck me. That's actually pretty cool."
"Thank you," Edward said, though he still looked somewhat apologetic. "I didn't mean to startle you quite that badly."
"Startle me? Ed, my mom used to threaten me with stories about that thing when I was a kid." Darnell pointed at the projection. "You just gave me like, fifteen years of childhood trauma in three seconds."
"I'm truly sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?"
Darnell's expression shifted. "Well, since you're asking... think you could make a projection of Demi Moore? You know, from that pottery scene in Ghost? Because I've got this fantasy where... ow!"
Marco had smacked him upside the head. "Get in the fucking vehicle. We're leaving."
"Worth a shot," Darnell muttered, rubbing his skull.
Edward deactivated the projection, and the Jersey Devil vanished. He climbed into the driver's seat while Marco and Darnell got in back. Otis was already there, Bastien perched on his shoulder, both looking remarkably calm considering the unconscious gangster lying a few feet away.
As they pulled away from the factory, Marco caught Edward watching him in the rearview mirror.
"Something on your mind?"
"Just thinking."
They drove in silence for a while. Rain started falling again, pattering against the windows.
---
The abandoned church stood in the ruins of what had once been a thriving neighborhood. Now it was just another corpse in Gotham's graveyard of forgotten places. The stained-glass windows had been shattered years ago, leaving only twisted lead frames embedded in the stone. Inside, the pews had been torn out and burned for warmth. The altar lay overturned, its cross snapped in half and spray-painted with gang tags.
This was where Black Mask had chosen to address his army.
Three hundred men packed the nave, all wearing identical skull masks. They carried an arsenal of weapons.
At the front, a platform had been built from stolen construction materials. Black Mask stood on it, surveying his forces. Behind him, the Electrocutioner leaned against the ruined altar.
He raised his arms, and the crowd fell silent.
"Look around you. Every single one of you knows what this city is. You've lived in it. Bled in it. Been stepped on by it your entire lives."
He pointed through the shattered windows toward downtown, where the spire of Wayne Tower gleamed even through the rain.
"That tower. That monument to wealth, power, and hypocrisy. Bruce Wayne, that spoiled trust-fund baby who thinks his money makes him better than us. He sits up there in his ivory tower, pretending his charity means something."
The crowd stirred, murmurs of agreement spreading.
"But you know the truth, don't you? You know what his charity really is. It's a lie. A bandaid slapped over a festering wound. While he throws galas and pats himself on the back for his generosity, you're still living in the sewers and getting arrested just for trying to survive. You're still getting shot by cops for being in the wrong neighborhood. Falcone, Maroni, the cops, the politicians, all of them sitting in their clean offices telling you to follow the rules. Their rules. Rules designed to keep you exactly where you are, in the gutter, looking up at them."
He spread his arms wide.
"They tell you to be patient. To wait. To believe that someday, if you just play by their rules, things will get better. But they won't. They never will. Because the game is rigged. The house always wins. And you? You're not even allowed at the table."
The crowd was getting restless now, feeding off his words.
"So fuck their rules. We're done playing. We're done waiting. And we're done pretending this city will ever give us anything but scraps."
He slammed his fist on the platform railing.
"We're going to take what's ours. We're going to burn their world down and build something new from the ashes. We're going to march into that tower and show all of Gotham what happens when you push people too far."
Electricity crackled louder behind him as the Electrocutioner pushed off from the altar.
"We've got power they can't match," Black Mask continued, gesturing to the mercenary. "And we've got nothing left to lose. Tomorrow night, Bruce Wayne's charity gala becomes his funeral. And the whole city will watch as their hope dies."
He raised his arms again.
"Who's with me?!"
Three hundred voices roared approval, echoing off the stone walls.
At the back of the crowd, a figure in a dark hoodie raised his submachine gun and shouted along with the others. But even as he yelled, he was edging backward, using the chaos to slip toward the side exit. Nobody noticed. They were too caught up in the moment.
The figure slipped out a side door, into the rain.
---
"Don Falcone, I don't think appearing in public at a time like this is wise."
Zsasz stood with his arms crossed, watching his employer from across the room. They were in one of Falcone's many safe houses, this one a penthouse in the financial district with bulletproof windows.
Falcone sat in a chair, nursing a glass of wine.
"You're right, Victor," he said calmly. "But tomorrow night, there's a Wayne Enterprises technology showcase and charity gala. Mayor O'Brien personally invited me. And the incoming police commissioner will be there as well. It's important to maintain good relations with both of them."
He took a sip of wine, then set the glass down.
"Besides, with you watching my back, I have nothing to worry about. Isn't that right?"
Zsasz's expression didn't change. "Black Mask is likely planning something."
"Let him," Falcone said with a slight smile. "He is a mad dog. Mad dogs eventually get put down. The question is simply who pulls the trigger."
"And if he comes for you tomorrow night?"
"Then you'll do what you do best, Victor."
Falcone stood, walking to the window. Rain streaked down the glass, distorting the city lights.
"Gotham is changing," he said quietly. "The old ways are dying. Maroni doesn't see it. Thorne barely cares. But I see it clearly. Men like Black Mask, like this Batman... they're symptoms of something larger. The city is sick. And when a body is sick, it either heals or it dies."
"Which do you think it'll be?"
Falcone turned back from the window, his smile widening slightly.
"That depends on who's holding the scalpel."