All the little stuff I wrote about my character is below. Enjoy it in all its cheesy comic-book goodness. ----------- (the first page of his origin issue) *PAGE ONE* Panel one: TOP BOX: "Two years ago. Memorial Day. The Gigante family mansion." Sepia-toned, high angle; a dark-haired man holding his hat in his hands waits on the doorstep of the servant's entrance of a mansion. In the background, we see a woman in a sundress, cradling a baby in her arms. Her face is off-panel. Box, handwritten: /It was our fifth month in Gotham City, and Karen's seventh month with us. My first vacation since I'd taken a job as a chauffeur. Karen's first chance to see the ocean./ Panel two: sepia-toned, closeup of the man's hand holding a set of car keys. Word balloon from off-panel: "We ain't using the car today, Monroe. Go ahead and take it, but have it back by tonight. Or else." Panel three: sepia-toned, high angle; the man is helping his wife get into the passenger's seat of a low-slung black car. A picnic basket is visible through the car's rear window. Box, handwritten: /I hated my job, and I didn't much like my employers, either. But it takes money to raise a family./ Panel four: sepia-toned, looking over the man's shoulder as he fits the key into the ignition. Box, handwritten: /I was already looking forward to the memories of today, to the sun in Charlotte's hair, to Karen playing in the sand. Today, we could dream about how wonderful our future was going to be. Today, I could forget that I hated the Gigantes./ Panel five: sepia-toned, closeup of the man's hand turning the key. Sound-effect: "*click* hiissssSSSSSS" Box, handwritten: /And today, someone else remembered just how much they hated them./ Panel six: sepia-toned, high angle; the car explodes, flames and black smoke billowing into the sky. Panel seven: TOP BOX: "Today. A condemned warehouse near Gotham City Harbor." Full-panel for the remainder of the page. The dark-haired man is sitting bolt upright on a table in a run-down warehouse. The room is lit only by moonlight streaming through the barred windows set high along one wall. The table is the only furniture in the room, though scrap newspapers are scattered across the floor and a clock in the background shows that the time is a few minutes after midnight. A sheet is draped over the man's lower torso and legs, and an ugly, ragged scar crosses his chest just over his heart. His skin is unnaturally pale, and his eyes are an icy blue and wide open with shock. He is propping himself up on one hand, while his other hand clutches at his chest. His mouth is open, as though he is about to scream. Box, handwritten: /When I came to Gotham City to start a new life, this was NOT what I had in mind./ ----------- (a brief synopsis) Alan Monroe aka "The Decedent." Alan Monroe, his wife Charlotte, and their seventh-month-old baby daughter Karen were killed by a car bomb wired to the ignition of Vincenzo Gigante's personal car on Memorial Day. The police investigation was minimal and conducted without the cooperation of the Gigante family; examination of dental records and DNA cross-matching with relatives allowed the coroner's office to positively identify the mangled and charred corpses. Concluding that the Monroes were accidental victims of an attack aimed at the Gigante family, the police terminated the investigation. No charges were filed and no culprits were sought. Two years later, Alan Monroe awoke in an abandoned warehouse near Gotham City's harbor. Alan remembers the explosion. He remembers dying. He remembers being dead. What he doesn't know is why he seems to be alive today, or how he arrived at that warehouse. Alan is six feet tall and of average build, and his skin is extremely pale and always cool to the touch. His dark hair is cropped short, and somewhat spiky on top. His eyes are an unnaturally light blue, which he sometimes conceals behind light-smoke-colored sunglasses. He took a job as a cab driver in order to pay for a small apartment, and researched what had happened in Gotham City since his death. Lurid tales of "The Batman" were new, stories about rampant corruption were not. Crime was rampant, especially organized crime. Eventually, he decided to fight crime, too. He carries a cunningly-built folding scythe that compresses down to an amazingly small size, and wears a black half-mask that covers the bottom half of his face. A billowing black cloak with a cowl completes the costume. ----------- (things to do in a bad neighborhood when you're dead) Three a.m., and I'm driving my cab through downtown. Most of the streetlights here are broken, most of the buildings condemned. I won't find a fare out here. I'm not looking for one. Gotham City hasn't changed much over the past two years; after just a few minutes of slowly patrolling this neighborhood, I see what I've been looking for, in a dimly-lit alley choked with garbage. Right there: an old man, getting mugged. I turn off the engine and coast to a stop. When I get out, I don't close the door. I jog quietly back towards the alley, pausing only to grab a charred two-by-four out of a trashcan. By the time I reach the alley, the mugger is still there, standing over the crumpled figure of the old man and counting his newly-stolen money. The old man is innocent. He has done nothing to deserve this. He is simply unlucky enough to live in a city where criminals can hurt others with impunity. Where criminals DO hurt others, every night of the year. But not tonight. The two-by-four is poorly balanced, but heavy enough to make a satisfying CRACK when I swing it into the back of the mugger's head. He stumbles forward, nearly tripping over his victim. He's bigger than I am. Much bigger. I hadn't noticed that from my cab, and the blow I struck didn't knock him out. Even now, he's pulling himself together. I swing again, this time only landing a glancing blow across his back. The mugger is turning now, screaming curses at me. In a panic...no, in a blind rage, I clamp the two-by-four over the mugger's throat, pulling back with every ounce of strength. The mugger bucks wildly, and it's all I can do to keep my grip on the board, to dodge his poorly-aimed kicks, to wrestle the mugger to the ground as I choke the life out of him. His struggles are growing more frantic as his air runs out. An icy pins-and-needles feeling is starting in my fingers. My fingertips are numb. My own breathing is growing shallow, and my sight is dimming. As my opponent becomes weaker, my own strength is fading away. My heartbeat flutters, and my lungs are burning. I can't seem to get enough air. I suddenly realize that I am dying. Again. I let go of the board and crawl away from the mugger on my hands and knees, panting heavily as my vision returns and my heart resumes a normal beat. I can't kill this man. Whatever brought me back and keeps me here will leave if I kill him. But at least I can keep him from killing others, at least I can stop him for tonight. He's still recovering, so he can't do much more than give me a black eye and a broken rib while I tie him up and drag him to the gutter. As a parting shot, I scribble "MUGGER" on a scrap of paper and pin it to his chest. Then I help the old man into my cab and drive us both to the hospital. It's not much, considering how many crimes are committed in Gotham City every night. But it's a start. ----------- (making a contact, Dr. Archibald McKay) I know I could never have seen this place before, but I feel like it's familiar anyway. The hallway is white, filmed over with decades' worth of grime. The white tiles of the floor are stained and cracked. Half of the fluorescent tubes in the overhead lights are missing, part of some cost-cutting initiative eight years ago. The ones that remain are ancient, and make irritating buzzing sounds as they flicker intermittently. Row after row of green-painted metal doors line the walls, each one with its own number. The elderly guard at the entrance barely glanced at me when I came in, and just jerked his thumb towards the back when I asked where I could find the medical examiner. If he'd asked, I would have shown him some false press credentials I put together at a local copy shop. If he'd looked at them too closely, I probably would have looked him in the eyes. I'm glad I didn't have to. I'm nervous, though, which surprises me. It's quiet in here, as quiet as a...well, better not to think of that. I peek in through the portholes on each set of doors. When I see the man in white standing with his arms thrust elbow-deep into someone's chest, I take a deep breath. I can't help but hesitate one last moment before I push open the door. He looks up at me when I come in, but doesn't say anything. There is a cracking sound inside the corpse's chest, followed by a kind of wet snapping sound. The doctor slowly extracts a shapeless lump of meat, dropping it unceremoniously on a scale. "Almost five pounds," he remarks casually. "Funny, you'd think a big guy like him would be pushing eight." He gives me an appraising and very intelligent look as he takes off his gloves, mopping his hands on a towel that used to be white. "You don't look very healthy," he says at last, clearly put off by the way I'm staring at a point just over his left shoulder. "I look better than most people who have been dead for two years," I reply flatly. He clicks his tongue derisively at me, and turns back to the body on the table. "Well, most of my bodies get wheeled in, they don't walk in on their own. But I'll see if I can fit you in. Just help yourself to an open slab down in the receiving room, I'll be down to cut you open by morning." He's playing it cool, but I can see his shoulders tensing beneath his lab coat. I almost can't bring myself to say it, but I force myself to. "I need you to give me some information," I mutter, taking a step closer to him. "About an unsolved case, from Memorial Day two years ago." "I don't remember," he snaps, still keeping his back to me. "And I'm busy. Run along now. The Psych ward's across the street, on the eighth floor." "You positively identified three bodies. I need to know just how positive you are." I take another step. He turns around suddenly, and there's a wicked-looking little knife in his hand. His knuckles are white, but his voice is surprisingly forceful. "No. What you /need/ to do, is leave. You're not with the police. You're not a reporter. I don't know who you are, but whatever you want, find it somewhere else." My chest tightens, and I imagine that I can feel the scar twisting against my shirt. This is all going wrong. It was supposed to be so straightforward. I step back, keeping my hands at my sides. "You don't understand," I say, and even I'm surprised at how desolate my voice sounds when it echoes off the tomb-like walls in here. "I think you identified /MY/ body two years ago. Alan Monroe. I was in a car, with my family. There was an explosion..." I can't say any more. The doctor is still holding the knife, and he's still tense, but his voice sounds more distant. "Monroe," he says, speculatively. "Yes. We spent a week scraping up pieces and identifying them. The Gigante family refused to cooperate, and the commissioner wanted to know if one of them had been killed. But it was just some driver, his wife, and their baby." His expression is quizzical as he studies my face. "Are you sure?" I say, fighting the urge to turn around and run away from here, from this cold room that I have never seen before but feels too familiar. Two hours later, I am uncomfortably perched on the sagging threadbare cushions of an ancient couch, sipping metallic-tasting coffee out of a styrofoam cup while Dr. McKay is at his desk, inspecting x-rays by holding them up to his desk lamp. Periodically he lays two films over each other, and makes short notes with a felt-tip pen. At long last, he sighs, and rubs his eyes with his knuckles. "I might still be wrong," he murmurs, "but if I am, the DNA fingerprint'll show it. The lab should have that done by next week. I /hope/ I'm wrong...but, well..." He gives a half-hearted shrug, and leans back. Assuming the air of a lecturer, he holds up x-rays, papers, photographs, one after the other, and bluntly recites facts at me. "The films we took of your teeth match the dental records on file for Alan Monroe, which match the dental fragments recovered from the adult male corpse on Memorial Day two years ago. You match the descriptions given by Monroe's neighbors, except for your eye color, which is a much lighter blue than the reports mention. The standard fingerprint-analysis program matches your prints to a right index and right thumbprint recovered from the Monroe's apartment, which match a set of prints from Alan Monroe's reckless driving arrest in Lincoln, Nebraska eight years ago. The scar on your chest is a nasty piece of work, certainly a deep cut from some kind of sharp, jagged edge, left unsutured. Your body temperature seems low--97.1 degrees Fahrenheit--which is unusual, but not life-threatening. Respiration, normal. Heartbeat, normal. Reflexes, normal...and even though I'm a bit rusty at examining people who are still able to walk and talk, I'd have to say that you're alive and in pretty good health. And that you, or your identical twin, were also blown to kingdom come a few Memorial Days back." He sighs heavily and stands up. "You're bad for my reputation, Mr. Monroe. I go to a lot of trouble to identify the decedent in every case where we have a body and no name to attach to it. If word gets out that I'm identifying corpses who are somehow pulling all their scattered and burned pieces back together so they can come storming into the morgue, demanding answers and explanations, well," he grins, a bit nervously, "I'll lose my job. And then they'll probably hire some drunken veterinarian to sit in this office and rubber-stamp 'ACCIDENTAL DEATH' forms all day." I chuckle a bit. I can't help it. This seems to break something that's been frozen inside me, and the next thing I know McKay is standing next to me with his hand on my shoulder, and I'm telling him about the mugger last week, about the drug dealer two nights ago, and about plans I never even knew I had, to bring criminals to justice. I'm telling him how people seem to recoil from me when I look them squarely in the eyes. I'm telling him how I miss Charlotte, and how I miss our daughter Karen. He shoves a thick file into my hand. "Your case," he says. "I think it's best if you hang on to my notes for me." He smiles a little bit, then turns me to face his door. "Now go, get out of here. It's been a slow night here, but that just means that they'll be bringing in twice as many this morning. My reputation, remember." He laughs softly. "But feel free to come back if you need something. I can't promise to help all the time, but if I can...well, I don't get much of a steady clientele down here. I think it'd be...interesting, to have a regular patient." ----------- (making an ally, part 1, Officer Ronnie Hopkins) In her last hour on duty, Officer Veronica Hopkins always made it a habit to swing by the liquor store. Not because she wanted to buy a drink; she never drank while on duty. Although if she did, it wouldn't be unusual in Gotham City, except that most of the serious lushes /started/ their shifts with a bottle. Instead, she patrolled past the liquor store because it was poorly-lit, open all night, and didn't deposit the night's earnings until mid-morning. Sooner or later, the law of averages catches up with everyone, and Seventh Street Liquor's odds of being robbed were always better than average. So she wasn't surprised when she saw the broken glass of the display window glittering on the sidewalk, or the way the door hung open, half-off its hinges, or the muted blare of the alarm echoing out into the empty street. What surprised her was seeing the robbers exit, lugging the heavy cash register between them. She hit the lights and siren automatically, gunning the engine to catch up with them. A grim smile crossed her face as she saw the two look at each other, obviously trading their best "Oh, shit, it's the cops" look, learned from god only knows how many bad TV shows. The two thieves turned a quick corner into a narrow alley just as she skidded her patrol car to a stop in front of the store. Pausing only to call it in on the radio, she pulled her shotgun from its rack and took off into the alley at a dead run. Figure that two to one odds aren't that bad when the one has a shotgun. Figure that one cop who stays in shape can outrun two born losers balancing a cash register between them. Figure that they'll underestimate her because she's a woman. /Damn, they're faster than they looked,/ Hopkins thought as she entered the alley and saw no sign of the thieves. She turned on the little flashlight mounted under the barrel of the shotgun, and slowed her pace, sweeping the cone of light into corners, behind dumpsters, across the puddles on the ground after the last rain. She spotted two sets of footprints occasionally, heading left down this narrow gap between buildings, turning right down that next alley. Seeing the back door of an abandoned apartment building standing open sealed the deal. Figure two born losers know a cop's right on their ass. Figure they need to lose her, one way or another. Figure they can't do that if they're hauling a cash register. Figure an ambush. Narrow hallways, lots of doors, one guy goes ahead and makes sounds down there, the other stands behind that corner with a four-foot length of rebar to bash in the cop's head with. Figure that backup isn't going to get here for fifteen minutes, if it comes at all. Go in, maybe the cop gets jumped, or maybe she's smart and corners the bad guys. Stay out, maybe the bad guys get bored and go out another door. Hopkins barely stopped to think about it. She went in, giving her eyes a few seconds to adjust while she scanned the area with the shotgun's flashlight. A muddy trail that way, still wet. She followed it, eyes open for hiding places, listening for any sound. A hollow *THUMP* echoed from upstairs, and she picked up the pace a bit. Staircase this way, the security door missing but one of its hinges still left. She came up the stairs textbook-perfect, low and fast, ready for anything. /What the fuck?/ she thought, spotting the cash register laying on its side just at the top of the stairs. A slow step to the side, every muscle tensed. There, just past the door to the hallway, one of the thieves was sprawled on the floor, an ugly-looking bruise across his temple. Out cold. She rolled back reflexively when the other one came barrelling down the hallway into the stairs, screaming like a madman. She squeezed the trigger, but only blasted a hole in the soggy drywall near the door, and the perp didn't even slow down, he just swerved to take the stairs further up, away from the gun, away from whatever was behind him. Hopkins was just pumping a new shell into the chamber and getting ready to head up when another figure, this one wearing a billowing black cloak and carrying a wicked-looking scythe, its blade glittering in the flashlight's beam, dashed up the stairs in hot pursuit of the thief. All she had time to see was a flash of too-pale skin. The roof was eight floors up. She ran the whole way, kicking open the door at the top and immediately spotting the cloaked man slowly approaching the thief, who was cowering near an air-conditioning unit, weeping in terror. *BLAM*. The shotgun's report echoed off the adjoining rooftops while she pumped another round in. The cloaked figure turned, slowly, scythe held easily in one hand. She could see how pale his skin was around the unnaturally light blue of his eyes, but the lower half of his face was concealed by some kind of fabric. Hopkins took two steps forward, her shotgun steady on the cloaked man. Her voice was steady, powerful, angry: "Hold it right there, asshole. Nice costume; who are you supposed to be, Death?" "No. Just dead," muttered the cloaked man. He remained where he was, but looked over at the thief again. The thief screamed, an incoherent stream of confessions and pleas for mercy. The cloaked man broke his eye contact with the thief, and returned to looking at her shotgun. "You know, he robbed a liquor store," remarked the man in a flat tone. "I think you already saw his partner and the cash register downstairs." Hopkin's voice was cautious, as she moved a few steps more. "I know. I'm arresting them." "Good," the man replied tonelessly. "Then I'll leave you to it." "The fuck you will. What, you think we let psychos with scythes just do whatever the hell they want to? You're coming downtown and answering questions, pal. What's your name?" The man's voice sounded oddly bleak. "You wouldn't recognize it." Hopkins bristled and snarled, "I asked for your /name/, not your autograph." The man seemed to shake himself slightly. "Look," he said, distantly. "I'm on your side. I saw them rob the liquor store, I caught up with them, I was packaging them up for delivery to the first officer on the scene. But I don't know how long the one downstairs is going to be out for, so don't waste time. Arrest this one, go collect his partner, talk to the store's owner, and get them in jail where they belong." Nearby, the robber scurried to lean face-first against the air conditioning unit, wrists held out behind him, eager to be handcuffed, whimpering something about going quietly, please, just don't let him die. Hopkins frowned. Figure that the cash register is felony theft and probably assault. Figure two righteous collars are good for the city, good for the police department, and good for a career. Figure there have been a lot of wild stories about costumed vigilantes in the newspapers already. She lowered the barrel of the shotgun slightly. Nodding gently, the cloaked figure did something with the scythe in his hand that started a small cascade of *clicks* as he folded it into a small bundle and hid it beneath his cloak. Hopkins handcuffed the thief, who seemed grateful, almost happy to be hauled off downstairs. She glanced over at the dark-cloaked man, who seemed to be gauging the distance to the next rooftop. "See you around," she called out, unable to keep the sarcastic edge out of her voice. Surprised, he turned to face her. "Well, yes, I suppose you will." ----------- (part 2) The third time Officer Hopkins ran into the morbid-looking vigilante roaming the Charon neighborhood, she managed to get a name out of him. After their first meeting, she saw him again, briefly, when she pulled into a parking garage to answer an auto-theft call and found a stunned-looking man with a full toolbag tied up and eager to confess, and caught a glimpse of a cowled figure with a scythe watching from an alley across the street. But the third time wasn't so carefully planned. She'd been paying attention to a local pawnshop, having heard a few rumors that someone was leaning on the owner for protection money, and one rainy night she spotted a fight in progress just two streets away. Even in the rain, she saw a shining curved blade spin rapidly through the air. Her cloaked vigilante was there, squaring off against a man twice his size carrying a nail-studded baseball bat. He was barely holding his own, narrowly dodging powerful blows and occasionally landing ineffective strikes of his own. Two crumpled bodies were on either side of him, indicating that he hadn't been doing too badly for himself, but apparently his luck had just run out. The big guy landed a solid blow right to the cloaked man's stomach, and he doubled over. Up came the baseball bat for a finishing blow to his head, and Hopkins didn't think, she just pulled the trigger. Two shots to the chest, and the big guy slumped over backwards. Keeping her gun out, she approached cautiously, kicking the bat far away, down the street. She called for an ambulance, gave a cursory look at the two unconscious thugs to make sure they were still breathing, then turned her attention to the man with the scythe. He was just starting to pull himself upright. "Thanks," he said, staring down at the big thug. "How long will it take the ambulance to get here?" "Just a few minutes," she replied, taking the opportunity to get a closer look at the vigilante. She thought she could see him biting his lip beneath the half-mask he wore. "He's tough. I hope he hangs on," he said cryptically. Her brow furrowed. "He was about to bash your head in." He shrugged. "He's been extorting local businesses. I told him it was time to stop. He didn't listen." He leaned heavily on his scythe, and continued in a somewhat confused tone, "and he wasn't afraid of death." >From a great distance, they could both hear a siren approaching. "Isn't that your cue, mystery man?" Hopkins sneered, jerking her head at the other end of the alley. "C'mon, scram, or I'll run you in for loitering." She was rewarded with an aggrieved-sounding sigh and a dry chuckle. "I suppose so. Let the wheels of justice turn without me." As he started moving up the alley, she saw the way he favored his left side. "Wait up a second," she said, moving to get a better look. "Oh my god, you're /bleeding./" "Probably," he muttered. "I thought you said you were already dead?" "I am. If he'd hit me a few more times, I'd probably be dead again." "That looks really painful." She reached to move his cloak aside, but he pulled away. "In relative terms, it's really not that bad." He shrugged. "See you around." "Not so fast, dead man. I have to write this up, and that means I have to write /you/ up, so I need some answers. What's your name?" His eyes closed for a moment in thought. "You could just call me 'the decedent,'" he said eventually. "That's what the other case called me. And what's your name?" "Hopkins. Officer Hopkins. Ronnie." "It's been a pleasure working with you, Officer Hopkins." He turned and limped away down the alley, adding over his shoulder, "Be careful out there." ----------- (part 3) The sixth time she met "the decedent," he scared her. It had only been about a month, but she'd started to appreciate having him around the neighborhood. Sometimes an anonymous call would be come in, identifying a crime scene and requesting an officer, and sometimes she'd find a criminal waiting in a neat little package, eager to confess. She pried small details out of them. Some maniac with a scythe caught them. The angel of death came to punish them for their sins. A crazy man with deadly eyes tried to kill them, but spared them if they would confess to their crimes. So one night after she'd locked a failed carjacker in the back of her cruiser, she looked for the local vigilante, and marched across the street to confront him. "Look me in the eyes," she demanded. He turned away, silently. "Do it, dead man. I want to see what those punks are so afraid of." Slowly, he turned back. His eyes lifted to meet hers, and he sighed. The light blue seemed to ripple, turning slowly darker. His pupils seemed to dilate. Later, she would swear that his entire eye was turning black, and that she couldn't look away. She shivered, suddenly chilled despite the warm summer night. Her fingers and toes were tingling and beginning to feel numb. But above all else, there was a bone-deep ache, a lingering pain, and a growing certainty that she was about to die. And then he turned abruptly and stepped away from her, his cloak swirling around him. She shuddered, involuntarily taking a step back and reflexively whispering a prayer her grandmother had taught her, one guaranteed to ward against evil. He reached the corner before she could get control of her voice. "Hey," she rasped, raising one hand as if to stop him but not trying to follow. He paused, but didn't turn around. "...be careful out there," she said, and hurried back to her car.