AN: I'm planning to release chapters on a consistent basis. So look forward to the beginning of the next arc next Friday!

Since I want to make this story as good as possible and become a better writer, please leave me reviews!

Love or hate anything in my writing? Find anything too convoluted or impossible to understand? Please help me improve by letting me know.

Thanks for reading!

She'd always had a hunch, but now she knew.

Gotham city was cursed.

No, worse than that. Gotham was a curse.

Cards on the table, the worst fear was the most probable. Gotham City was Hell itself.

After the infernal gas had touched Winthrop's lungs, only for a hellhound to pounce at her and rake swaths of her skin off, she'd been sprinting non stop through Gotham's nightmarescape.

Her legs banged against the swirling pavement, long past how long she'd ever run since beginning her career. Her muscles felt raw and sticky, and almost like a new fiber snapped with every consecutive motion.

Lungs felt like breathing into punctured balloons.

Her insides burned and she'd long since torn off her jacket and blouse.

In speeches, like any respectable Gothamite, she'd boasted her being a native, being a true Gothamite with the lineage to prove it. To any resident, that title was a badge of something unique to the peculiar and exhilarating city.

Gothamite carried many connotations. The main being a survivor. They said there were two types of natives: those that couldn't afford to leave, and heroes that choose to stay.

But right now, Winthrop would in all seriousness start a committee to modify Merriam-Webster's official definition to the word "Gothamite."

Something reading along the lines of, "A poor schmuck of abject wretchedness whom God has turned away from."

For the first time she was seeing with divine crystalline clarity just how utterly beyond hope the whole fucking city was.

She remembered hearing the despicable "factoid" about her city, and how it had at least double the amount of stone gargoyles to the second most gargoyle housing city in the whole goddamn world.

That alone should have tipper her off to how nicked in the head their founders had been. That insanity, that did something as incredibly fucking stupid as stockpile childish stone grotesqueries, would stagnate. A Gothamite was a maggot born in the muck of rotted cerebral spinal fluid spilt from the heinously walking stillbirth's that had founded the country's biggest city, moments before letting it plunge into the depths of a plague that put to shame anything out of the Old Testament.

Now that she saw, she understood. The gargoyles weren't constructed from the foundational stones of Gotham. No, it was the opposite.

The buildings, the streets… fucking, even the lampposts and gutters were the transmuted flesh of real hellborn Gargoyles.

She could see them now. They weren't out and running about. No, it was far more insidious than that. She could see past the make up of the bricks and mortar, and now perceive the city's spiritual matrices.

Each and every pebble was a face. Every wall was a myriad of eyes peering out bloodshot at her.

"Fuck you!" She screamed at them.

She'd run until she was away from the city, and she'd never return. That was a promise she could stake her life on.

The gargoyles and demons and chimeras began to recede, once again unseen but never out of mind, as her legs began writhe in agony.

Either her the active and whirl-pooling sidewalk tripped her, or the pop in her foot promised some real damage. She fell and slid. The searing white hot lancing through her body was too intense for her to feel any additional pain from her fall.

She remained on the ground for an unknowable amount of time, her internal clock tweaked beyond even guesswork.

She creaked one eye open. The walls were walls once more. Her heat was still blistering, but dialed down to "manageable."

All in all she supposed the hallucinations hadn't lasted more than five minutes. Ten tops.

Her mania weakened enough for Winthrop to be cognizant of it, but hadn't receded enough for her to know if the ominous growls behind her were real or not.

The charity event. Her mind grasped at the thought. The attack. That much was real.

She steadily rose up and faced the predator stalking her.

A demonic aura visibly illuminated the edges of the beast, much akin to the blotted sun's dampened beams shimmering amorphous talons around the moon during a lunar eclipse. Or… something like that. The mane was a subtle halo of evil.

But the lion, that was real. She could recognize him. His name was Kabul the lion. A famous resident at Gotham City Zoo.

She put her hands up in front of her, ready to ward off any potential attack.

Kabul appeared passive enough, but she she wasn't any sort of expert. Plus, the suspiciously crimson drool at his muzzle could mean he'd transformed into a man-killer.

"Hey there kitty," Winthrop whispered. Her hands were shaking like she was holding an invisible jackhammer. Fear, or the drugs?

"Kabul," she licked her lips and continued her attempts to reassure nature's perfected apex predator. "We're safe now. Right? You're away from the crowd, from the noise… from the gas… Those are winding down now, aren't they?"

She moved her back foot in the opposite direction of the lion at a glacial pace. "Good kitty. Caaaaalm kitty"

A particularly feral glint in Kabul's eyes made Winthrops stop dead in her tracks. Shortly after, Kabul dipped his head and turned to the side.

She planted her back foot, and shuffled her front foot behind that one, quickening her retreat.

As she began shuffling a further step back, Kabul's head locked onto her as if he'd noticed she was there for the first time.

"Shitshitshit," Winthrop cursed through clenched teeth.

"In a bit of a jam, are we, DC Winthrop?"

Winthrop jolted at the voice, appearing, tinged with a joviality discordant with the circumstance.

She saw the speaker enter the alleyway and approaching Kabul from behind.

The mysterious person wore a simple black hoody that obscured their face. The bagginess of the clothes made their gender impossible to place.

"I-I need help," Winthrop strained her voice to sound calm enough not to agitate the lion, but knew the desperation filled her tone.

"I can see that, DC Winthrop," the figure, hands in pockets, voice ignorant of the apparent danger as they neared, continued sauntering toward Kabul.

"No- no," Winthrop tried willing the person to halt. "It's dangerous. We need to get the hell out of here."

"Naturally," the figure said. "I wanted to speak with you first. We need to talk about something of the utmost importance, in fact."

Was this person daft? Once they neared the lion, they were going to die!

"Hey," the figure said, stopping next to Kabul to examine him. "I feel like I recognize this lion."

In the amount of time a dream ignites into a nightmare, the lion had roared, reared its head, and pounced its full weight atop the hooded figure.

Winthrop screamed.

"Pew," the Figure said. "Your breath reeks."

Winthrop, realizing she'd averted her gaze at the first sign of violence, poked an eye at what she'd suspected would have to be a grisly scene. Her mind's eye predicted seeing the Figure torn open with their intestines drooping, like antelope from any fucking nature documentary about lions.

Instead, she saw the Figure holding their arms out, one hand against Kabul's upper teeth, their other hand holding firm the lower teeth and jaw.

They held no less than half the entire lion's weight up by the mouth with average proportioned arms.

Kabul struck out with paws bigger than its captor's face, battering the Figure's head.

The figure reacted to the lions claw-tipped swipes as if merely being pelted in the head by wet sponges.

Winthrop had no idea what to make of the situation.

"You're not playing very nice," the Figure said, for the first time having a hint of something other than nonchalance to their cadence. They sounded mildly annoyed. "Just remember, I considered keeping you as a pet."

The Figure's hands reached deeper down the lion's mouth.

Winthrop's throat careened into her stomach; only on reflex. Clearly, the figure was somehow above the any sort of peril.

The Figure hunched the slightest bit, as if readying to attempt a minor physical feat.

They tore the lion in half.

Longwise.

Down from mouth ripping apart to anus.

An unbelievable amount of blood exploded into the alley. Moments later Winthrop's shoes were soaking in it.

The Figure approached her, their entire body steaming.

Heat, from the blood.

Organs draped around the Figure like gooey necklaces.

"You're the Fourth," Winthrop realized as she said it.

"The-?" The Fourth quirked his head to the side. "Oh, right. I listened to your speech about us. Me, and my father's other creations." They snapped their fingers. Bile splashed off as they did. "Wow, you're pretty sharp. Spot on. I guess I am the Fourth."

"Do- do you have a name?" Winthrop ventured.

"Of course I do. Who doesn't have a name?"

Winthrop had been terrified of the gargoyles earlier. But, her mind, some part of it, was aware that it was under a hallucinogenic influence. Facing the lion, that was real fear. As distilled as fear could get. She'd faced the primordial fear of possible death.

Talking to the Fourth she experienced something far worse than either fear. It was… a sort of combination of both. The ancient fear of beasts, of a creature wielding far superior physical strength to oneself that would barely need to exert itself to tear you apart. It was also that fear of a malignant supernatural force. This time, however, there was no doubt. The force was real. As real as anyone she'd ever met.

Horror.

People were afraid of running into ghosts, despite there not once being a report of anyone being harmed by any, alleged, spectral entities. Their was a fear of facing something so unknown and incomprehensible it exceeded the bounds of life and death.

A child, fearing a monster in her room, pulled covers over her head. That's not an act of defense, but preservation of sanity. The monster-fearing child would rather cover their eyes and never see the monster, essentially praying for a decisive death at it's claws and mandibles, then to witness the Fright and survive.

Winthrop was past fearing for her life. She was well beyond feeling horrified. She'd seen the monster, and wished it had shown the mercy of killing her before revealing itself.

"Like I said, DC Winthrop," the Fourth said. "There's something we simply must discuss."

Something about the voice gave it away. Now that the Fourth was face to face with her, she could perceive the perverse undertone hidden within the recesses of the Fourth's voice. It wasn't menacing. Not sadistic, or even evil in any active or passive way. It was just wrong.

Winthrop thought about how baby dolls could illicit disquiet within her. Some Ventriloquist dummies too. Something about the more human and lifelike they were designed to appear, the more their inhuman wrongness, their disguising of their perverted selves with a mockery of a human visage, became accentuated.

That general concept was what lurked in the bowels of the Fourth's voice.

The tone wasn't evil, but it certainly wasn't good. It couldn't be either of those, because whatever the Fourth was, was so utterly a different being than human, that it fundamentally was incompatible with the concept of morality.

"For my murders, for my misdeeds," the Fourth spoke the words as a toddler might mention words about sex; void of comprehension. "Don't send the police after me. Not officers, detectives, or other cute little Commissioner's and their like."

"I won't need to," Winthrop was surprised at the lucidness of her words. "If you don't do…those kinds of things, we won't send officers after you. Remember, I told you we would help you. We will help you."

"I've heard that before," the Fourth chuckled. If their idea of playing a piano was by snipping its cords, making noise of their vicious snaps, rather than pressing keys with fingers, then their idea of what a chuckle should sound like made sense. "No, I'm not coming with you. Yes, I'm going to murder folks. All sorts of folks. Old people, little kids maybe, pets, police men… And you're not to waste my time by coming for me."

Winthrop was stunned silent.

"Batman has to do it," Their voice rose an octave. Their was excitement at the mention of Batman.

More than excitement. An implication was expressed by the Fourth in their exaltation of the Dark Knight's name. Something Winthrop really wished she could forget or ignore.

Sexual would be the wrong term.

Winthrop had talked to some real sadists she'd arrested. Psychopaths who mixed sexual desires with extreme acts of gore and affliction upon others, mixed with a dose of childlike innocence and unabashed enthusiasm. They'd forced her to pick up drinking again, just so she could sleep without first contemplating how such inhuman beasts could be classified as the same species as her.

She couldn't shake the feeling that the way the Fourth had shivered while mentioning Batman would make even those sadists she'd arrested queasy.

Winthrop stopped herself from admitting it wasn't up to them who Batman went after or not. "Batman's a hero," she lied. "He'd be ashamed of anyone who murdered just to get his attention."

The Fourth's mouth became visible as it opened in shock. "Oh no. Really?"

"A-absolutely," Winthrop tried sounding as sincere as possible, gambling that the Fourth was an admirer of Batman's, and could be manipulated because of that. "Batman stands for justice. He loves those who do the right thing."

Based on their body language, the Fourth's mood was lighting up. "That's fantastic. I've always been a good person anyways. People always betray me in the end, so if Batman's so upstanding, than he'll understand me. He'll understand my intentions are good!"

Winthrop gulped. The Fourth's adolescent nature and superhuman strength were the worst combination she could imagine. "You'd like to meet Batman, right?"

The Fourth shook their head more forcibly.

"I would like nothing better than for that to happen too," Winthrop said. "If you come back with me to the charity event, he'll probably be there. I can introduce you to him."

The Fourth froze. "Right- right now? So sudden? I don't know. I'm pretty shy."

Before Winthrop could answer, she was interrupted.

"No," the Fourth said. "The message should will have to be enough tonight. I'm just not ready to see him again so soon."

Winthrop sighed. It sounded like she would be spared. "I'll tell him."

"That's alright. I'll leave the message myself," the Fourth said, raising their arm up into the air.

The arm was the last thing Winthrop saw before it came down and squashed her into the crater it left from the impact.