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Hunter's Mark	By : Rothrashaan Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Batman (All Movies) > Batman (All Movies) Views: 1633 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Any names and affiliations with the Batman universe are obviously not mine. The others? Yeah, those are. I make no profit or any sort of monetary gain from this piece of writing, nor does any other person or party have that right or my permiss

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She wasn't sure why, but she had the sinking feeling that some oppressing presence had made its way into the gallery. It might have been the growing silence, or the sudden shuffling of feet.

Or, it might have been the man in a purple suit that was brandishing a gun, lips twisted in a maniacal grin as he sauntered into the room. Other men with more guns were quickly filing into the room as well, corralling the occupants and forcing them to sit on the floor.

Aside from the guns in the lackeys' hands, as she couldn't think of them as being anything else, none of them seemed to carry the same presence or command such a distinct amount of attention as the one with the painted face.

A face that, she thought, didn't seem to be just covered in paint. Even in her slightly inebriated state, she thought she could make out the very tell-tale signs of scarring on both sides of the mans mouth. Masked ever so slightly with red paint to make it look like one huge, disfigured smiley-face.

All this happened so quickly that she had hardly noticed one of the armed lackeys standing beside her, and ordering her to sit down on the floor with her back against the wall. The order caused her to briefly stare at the man, the urge to wrench the gun from his hands and shoot him with it was just a fleeting thought, but one that was apparently rather obvious. She had a cold nozzle hastily pressed into the side of her neck before she had any chance to wrangle her emotions.

Blasted issues...

With her fists clenched, and a scowl playing at the corner of her mouth, she slowly sank onto the balls of her feet before extending an arm to steady herself as she finally took a seat on the cold gallery floor. Her delayed compliance must have been a tad longer than she had originally thought, as a few of the patrons continued to stare at her as she scooted back towards the wall and brought her knees up enough to rest her arms across the joints. She had the distinct feeling that the lackeys painted leader had fixed his gaze in her direction, but she didn't dare look up to confirm the suspicion.

Not when it felt like her blood was starting to boil inside her body.

Shit! Come on booze, I know your cheap but do you have to be completely useless too?

In the moments that it took her to get herself under control, the lackey which had tended to her already moved on to make sure the other patrons were in line and backed against the wall. The painted man took one last survey, possibly making sure things were to his liking, before he straightened up and addressed the crowd.

"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentleman! What a great dis-pleasure it is to be here, amongst Gotham's most high-strung and pretentious." The man turned and eyed his captive audience, a grim smile flashing across his face as his gloved hand gripped a smaller sized knife.

His lackeys kept circling the room like a pack of scavenging dogs, looking for any reason, legitimate or not, to lash out at any of the captives.

"But, perhaps one of you could help me find a new hanging for my office. I'm quite a fan of this artsy crap, but I never know what I like..." He moved closer to some of the captives, a ways away from her but not far enough that she couldn't tell what was going on.

She could tell that the man had the knife pressed against the face of a woman, the empty hand keeping the woman from looking away.

"How about you?" his voice little more than a guttural growl as he dragged the woman towards the center of the gallery. She nearly stumbled into the man as he yanked the terrified woman to her feet, still holding the blade across the side of her face.

It took a few moments before the man became impatient with his captive and shoved the end of the blade into the corner of her mouth, instantly stilling her and making her very aware that her pathetic example of 'struggling' was no longer going to be tolerated.

While all of this was happening, Rae, a name she adopted only months before arriving Gotham, could feel the buzz begin to ebb away from her senses. She was becoming more and more aware of the mounting fear had long since settled into the gallery, the beads of sweat beginning to form on the back of her neck and the clamminess that ate through her skin to gnaw at her bones.

No... no No NO! Not now!

Her breath started to quicken as she fought against the panic that arose in the back of her mind.

She had to keep it under control. Especially now! Oh gods why did she have to push herself into staying longer?

... Oh, that's right. She had nowhere else to occupy her time while she awaited 'the call'.

Yeah, because thinking about that crap is really helping me right now.

She cursed at herself and started the tedious task of shutting down her senses, one-by-one.

It was damn near impossible when that stupid captive wouldn't shut up! She couldn't spare herself a moment to see what was going on, but she doubted it was anything that would justify the amount of noise that continued to pour out of the woman.

She had to concentrate!

As she became more absorbed in her task, the scene with the painted man started to become a little more... lively, for those involved.

"So, I'm thinking I'd like something... aggressive. Something that says, who I really am..." The man bobbed his head and raised eyebrows to his captive, acting as if the woman had openly agreed to help him.

The man shoved the woman away from him as if he had found new, more interesting prey to hold his attention. He glided across the floor with a slight spring to his step, muttering a little tune under his breath as his gaze darted over the paintings and the captives that were huddled underneath their frames like frightened children.

"Eeny... meeny... miny..."

"...-Dead."

With a smack of his lips and an unnerving stare, the painted man made a slight motion towards his lackeys, who obediently stepped in and yanked another of the captives to their feet. The new participant, who managed to shove one of his assailants away from him before being quickly subdued by the other, was a man in his mid thirties. This man, who was obviously very rich, held an air of undeserved importance about him. He was a man that couldn't buy the world, yet felt everyone on it should be subservient to him nonetheless.

One of those "High-strung and pretentious" types.

"A freak like you has no business being here!"

Clearly, also one of those pretentious types that didn't know when to keep their mouth shut. It didn't take long before the captive found himself being silenced with his own tie, his protests garbled by the expensive material as it pulled against the corners of his mouth.

"A... freak like me?"

Oh dear.

There was a certain darkness to the painted mans voice, one that seemed to promise that there were many possible atrocities the man was considering.

"What's a party, without a couple of freaks?" The painted man stalked closer to his new prey, knife in hand and deadened look engraved on his face. "Lets see what we can do about you..."

At that moment, it wasn't the tone of the painted mans voice that destroyed the mental barrier Rae had been fighting to maintain. It was the gut-wrenching scream.
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Hunter's Mark