The closer they got to the abandoned meat-processing plant, the worse the smell became. It wasn't just bad... A vile blend of rotting organic matter and chemical reagents that seemed to coat the inside of your mouth and nose like grease. The light rain that had started falling didn't wash it away. If anything, it made things worse, flushing the stench out from every crack and crevice.
Marco breathed through his mouth, but that just made him taste it.
"Fuck," Darnell muttered from beside him, unconsciously tightening his grip on the Glock 17 in his hand. His other hand pressed his tactical mask tighter against his face, as if that would help. "This guy's gotta have chronic rhinitis or something. How the hell else does he stand living here?"
Marco didn't answer. He just raised a hand in a silent gesture and scanned their surroundings. Most of the windows had been boarded up with plywood. The few remaining panes of glass were so filthy you couldn't see through them.
They'd chosen a side entrance as their entry point, a small door that looked like it had been used for deliveries back when this place was operational. The original lock had been smashed years ago, replaced by a single rusted iron bar wedged into place. The hinges clearly hadn't been oiled in a decade. When he opened the door, it let out a long, drawn-out groan like something dying.
The smell inside hit them.
Darnell gagged, stumbling back a step. "I swear when we catch this guy, I'm personally gonna make him eat his own—"
"Focus," Marco said quietly, raising his AR-15.
Darnell swallowed whatever he'd been about to say and brought his Glock up, finger alongside the trigger guard.
Inside was a narrow corridor. A single emergency light flickered overhead with bad contact. Marco moved forward in a crouch, rifle up, scanning corners. Darnell followed close behind, keeping his sectors clear.
"Clear," Marco whispered.
The corridor opened into the main processing area. The space was enormous, easily a hundred meters across. Metal conveyor belts and hanging rails crisscrossed overhead. The floor was stained with decades of accumulated filth. Their flashlights swept across the room. Marco's beam swept over several metal worktables scattered through the room, revealing tools spread across their surfaces. Butcher knives and bone saws lay beside meat hooks hanging from chains, and mixed in with the heavy blades were items that had no place in a slaughterhouse: scalpels, forceps, and suturing needles with thread still attached.
"Christ," Darnell breathed. "This guy's a real Renaissance man. With skills like that, he could've opened a barbecue joint."
"Stop talking."
"Yeah. Yeah, sorry."
Marco moved toward the far side of the workshop, where a row of concrete basins had been built into the floor. His light passed over them, catching foul-smelling liquid at the bottom and fragments of something he preferred not to identify.
"What the fuck," Darnell said suddenly. "Man. You need to see this."
Marco turned. Darnell's flashlight was illuminating a corner beneath one of the worktables. There was a crumpled object there, filthy and barely recognizable. Darnell used his gun barrel to unfold it.
It was a human face. Or it had been.
The skin had been crudely flayed off. Where the facial features should've been were just dark holes. Someone had marked measurements around them in what looked like dried blood or black pigment. Marco looked at Darnell, saw his own horror reflected in his partner's eyes.
"Forget arresting him," he said quietly. "No prisoners."
Darnell nodded.
On the far side of the processing area was an iron door. Marco trained his rifle on it and gestured to Darnell. His partner moved up, twisted the handle, and yanked it open.
"Holy... shit..."
What greeted them was a converted storage room, lit by several cold, pale bulbs. Row after row of wooden shelves lined the walls, packed densely with glass jars. Floating in formaldehyde were human organs and tissue fragments. And in the back, on a higher shelf, several roughly stitched human heads wearing crude latex masks, their dead eyes staring at nothing.
"Fuck. Fuck!" Darnell's breathing went ragged. "Are we hunting Hannibal Lecter? Is that what this is?"
"Definitely not," Marco said. "Hannibal wouldn't be this disgusting."
His gaze fell on a rack near the door. Hanging from hooks were several crude leather pig-face masks, the kind you'd see at a butcher shop or maybe in a slaughterhouse. Except these weren't professional. These were handmade, stitched together with uneven seams and stained with dark patches. In the corner of the room sat an old, large-capacity freezer. Its compressor hummed dully, struggling to maintain temperature. On the floor beside it was a broken, oversized handcart. Beneath a filthy canvas tarp in the cart, something protruded from one corner.
Marco didn't want to look closer. He already knew what it was.
Squeak!
Bastien, who'd been scouting ahead, suddenly darted back through the doorway, scampering up Marco's tactical vest and diving into a pocket. The rat was trembling.
From somewhere beyond the door came the sound of wheels rolling, followed by a voice singing something soft and gentle, like a lullaby.
"He comes with fire and knife,
With needle and with thread,
To tailor just for you...
A brand-new pretty head..."
The voice drew closer, echoing down the corridor they'd just come through.
Marco and Darnell crouched behind the shelves, steadying their weapons and aiming at the iron door. The smell of blood and chemicals grew stronger. The wheels and the song reached the doorway and stopped abruptly. The storage room fell into dead silence, broken only by their own breathing and the distant hum of the freezer compressor.
Then the door slowly swung inward.
A massive figure staggered through the entrance, silhouetted against the light from the processing floor. He wore a blood-soaked leather apron. Rubber gloves reached past his elbows. In one hand, he held an old-fashioned oil lantern that swayed gently.
He sniffed the air, pig nostrils flaring.
"Mmm... new... little dolls?"
The pig-headed man's gaze settled on the two officers crouched behind the shelves. His head tilted.
"Come to attend... my... my—"
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Darnell's Glock barked three times before Marco could stop him. Of the three shots, one went wide, punching a hole in the wall. The other two hit center mass, slamming into the pig-man's chest. He staggered back two steps. Then fury exploded in those bloodshot pig eyes.
"Police?!" The voice that came out was barely human. He raised a crescent-shaped butcher's blade.
"Bad dolls!!"
The pig-man charged forward, surprisingly fast for something his size.
Marco's AR-15 erupted in a sustained burst.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG.
The 5.56mm rounds tore through the pig-man's body in rapid succession, leaving neat entry holes and blowing massive exit wounds out the back. Blood sprayed in spurts, painting the shelves and jars behind him. He stumbled, tried to keep moving forward, and ran face-first into a wall of bullets.
THUD.
The pig-man collapsed backward onto the concrete, his cleaver clattering away across the floor. His chest was a ruined mess, blood pooling beneath him.
Marco didn't stop firing.
He emptied his magazine, ejected it, slapped in a fresh one, and kept shooting. The body jerked and twitched with each impact. Bits of meat and bone flew off. By the time he finally stopped, he'd burned through sixty rounds.
The pig-man's corpse was barely recognizable anymore.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, rifle still trained on the body. Waiting to see if it would move.
It didn't.
"Fuck," Darnell said quietly. His voice shook. "I... I honestly can't tell which of you two was more brutal just now."
Silence fell. Marco finally lowered his rifle and reloaded.
"So..." Darnell cleared his throat. "We got him, right?"
"Yeah." Marco's voice was flat. "Let's move. Call Gordon. Tell him to bring a full forensics team and at least ten officers. Once the GCPD rolls into the West Side in force, even Black Mask's crew won't be stupid enough to start shit."
"Since when do we have to worry about gangsters interfering with police work?" Darnell spat angrily, following Marco toward the exit.
Marco didn't answer. He was already pulling up his radio.
As they left, he caught a glimpse of a system notification at the edge of his vision:
[You have ended the fate of Lazlo Valentin. Skill Point +3]
---
Deep beneath Wayne Manor, in the cave carved out by underground rivers millions of years ago, the elderly butler crossed the long platform toward the monitoring console. He carried a teacup in one hand and a silver-white briefcase in the other.
"Master Bruce, black tea helps relieve fatigue and restore clarity of mind. Also, Dr. Fries' cryogenic grenade prototype has been completed."
"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce took the teacup and set it on the console, then opened the briefcase. Nestled in soft foam lining were four metal canisters shaped like flattened flasks, their surfaces covered in spiral grooves for grip.
Bruce picked one up, examining it. "After being thrown, it generates extremely low temperatures over approximately twenty square meters, instantly extinguishing flames..." He read the specifications and nodded in satisfaction. "Should I make the cape fireproof as well?"
"That would interfere with the electrical conductivity feature, Master Bruce," Alfred replied with a slight bow. "You'd best drink the tea while it's still hot to achieve optimal results."
"Right." Bruce grabbed the teacup and drained it in one go, barely tasting it. "Looks like one suit of armor isn't nearly enough."
"Funding is not an issue," Alfred said, taking the empty cup. A small smile touched his lips. "The Wayne Cryogenic Life Preservation System welcomed its first European client several days ago. According to the company's financial report, after deducting operational costs and Dr. Fries' fifteen-percent share, net profit amounts to approximately 1.5 billion dollars. That figure should increase substantially as the service becomes more established."
Bruce nodded, clearly unconcerned with the numbers. Money had never been the problem. Time was the problem. "Alfred, prepare the Batmobile. I'm going out tonight."
Alfred's expression shifted slightly. "Master Bruce, given your injuries..." His gaze dropped pointedly to Bruce's arm, still in a cast. "You would be better served by resting for a few more days. At least until—"
"No, Alfred. Gotham is bleeding. I can't stand by and do nothing while that happens." Bruce met the butler's eyes. "I appreciate your concern. But this is what I do. You know that."
Alfred fell silent for a few seconds.
"Yes, Master Bruce. Everything shall be as you wish."
He bowed slightly and turned to leave.
Bruce watched him go, then turned back to the console. On the screens, Gotham's streets played out in real-time surveillance feeds.