I almost forgot to post this chap, gotta keep the weekly release going!
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Vampire Rule N°29: Good enemies are hard to come by, but that's no reason to spare your son's murderer.
… … … … … … … …
Rupert Thorne liked to think of himself as a realist.
Romantic notions were for politicians, artists, and idealists too naïve to know the difference between poetry and pressure points.
You didn't get to be one of the wealthiest, most feared men in Gotham by hoping for the best. You got there by bleeding the weak and paying the strong to bleed others for you.
Which is why, when Brideshead went quiet last year, he didn't act immediately. He watched.
He let the neighborhood do what it wanted…thrive under that clean-shaven charity boy John Harker and his naïve little dream of rebirth. Let them plant flowers over bloodstains. Let them clap for their watch groups and their clean streets and their bright-eyed kids with scholarship dreams.
He watched, and when the smiles stuck a little too long… he made his move.
Now, Thorne sat back in a thick leather chair in the penthouse suite of the Van Weyland Tower, two fingers of something Scottish and way too expensive burning in his glass. Smoke from his cigar curled around the high ceiling like a slow-moving specter.
Outside, Gotham shimmered in its usual filth. Rain danced on glass. Headlights crawled like ants along arteries of rot and concrete. The city never slept because sleep meant silence, and silence meant time to think.
He never liked silence.
"Status on North Palisade?" he asked.
A man in a tailored vest across the room cleared his throat. His name was Dreyfus. Smart. Ex-military. Cost a fortune to pull from Blackgate's contractor list, but he was worth every penny.
"Gone," Dreyfus replied, pager in hand, "We lost the stash house, the cars, the runners, and at least fourteen men. Three more haven't checked in since last night."
Thorne sipped his scotch.
"And the Payne Street pharmacy front?"
"Burned. No survivors."
"Redmond Crew?"
"Flattened. Three in ICU. One paralyzed."
Thorne nodded slowly. The numbers weren't good. They were expected, but they weren't good. Millions in assets lost. Hundreds of thousands in product gone.
Years of cultivated contacts, wiped in nights.
It wasn't just the money. It was the message.
Whoever this new freakshow was, he wasn't out for intimidation. He was out for annihilation. Gotham's usual freaks left a body or two as a statement. This one left ruins. Piles of broken bones and promises.
The most annoying part?
He hadn't even seen the bastard's face.
"Do we know who it is yet?" Thorne asked.
"Still no face, no name. Just rumors. Red eyes. Victorian coats. A monster out of folklore. They're calling him Alucard." Dreyfus smirked faintly, someone so ugly should never do that, "Cute."
"All vigilantes start cute." Thorne grunted.
The Bat started cute. Now look at him.
He stubbed the cigar into a crystal ashtray, stood, and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window. His reflection stared back at him. Bloated by wealth, aged by power. Slick gray hair. Expensive tie. A face that had once known how to smile before it forgot why.
He tapped the glass lightly.
"Brideshead," he muttered.
A district he longed to own, and he once nearly did. Not just in the backroom-deal sense—but truly own. The bricks had paid him. The cops had owed him. He'd bled it dry until there was nothing left but hollow-eyed addicts and kids with nine-year life expectancies. That's how Gotham worked.
That's how you carve territory.
He was bleeding then too, losing money and men to upstarts and established powers alike, some of them wanted a piece of the pie, others just wanted to deny him his due.
'F*cking Falcone and his premium killers.' Thorne scowled, the mere thought enough to make his wallet sting.
But he persisted, carved his niche in this unforgiving world.
Then that Harker kid came in like some goddamn human rights advocate and started preaching about hope. Buying properties. Hiring security. Cleaning house.
And worse, he made it work.
For a moment, Rupert felt that heavy weight on his belly, the one he felt when snatched too much money off his father's register then saw the man's tired eyes as he struggled to pay the bills.
And this time, he couldn't rob a tire shop to make up the difference.
It was all that darn silence, making him think about useless stuff.
Think that he wasn't really just a businessman who did whatever it takes to get his, that he was more than just another wolf biting his way into power in a place that demanded nothing less.
That he might be what's wrong with the world.
So he made some noise, brought in the heavy equipment and started digging, looking everywhere for an answer that didn't make his stomach churn.
And boy did he find it.
The ravaged bodies of those who would have ended this bullshit faster than you could say 'opium'
Then he realized it wasn't Harker changing things, he was just a little do-gooder who showed up at the right place at the right time, when a real monster imposed his will on the world.
The way he did, the way everyone in Gotham did from Carmine Falcone to Batman.
That, he could live with, the monster of Brideshead, Alucard, whatever name aroused the little upstart and made him feel big and scary.
He could even beat up a few methheads and make him lose a couple thousands if it pleased him, that was just the cost of doing business.
So long as he doesn't overstep.
That couldn't be allowed. Not just because it was bad for business. But because it meant others would try the same. He'd have neighborhood revolts from the Narrows to Fracture Bay if he didn't gut this thing quick and send a message.
But he underestimated Alucard.
"Give me the full breakdown," he said, turning back to Dreyfus.
"Twenty-one confirmed crews—destroyed. Another sixteen scattered. At least seven independent contractors terminated. Four million in damages and growing. Weapons, narcotics, vehicles. All gone." He said in the uncaring drawl of a man who killed for peanuts and a pat on the back.
"And all within a week?"
Dreyfus nodded grimly, which was just a regular nod for the guy.
"Impressive," Thorne admitted, almost amused. "So… this ghost wants a war."
"I think he thinks he's already won." Dreyfus mentioned casually.
Thorne chuckled, slow and sour.
That's the thing with these vigilantes. They get cocky, real fast.
The Bat does it.
Black Spider did too, before snooping around the Roman's Empire and finding himself on the receiving end of Lady Justice and her big police stick.
Sooner or later they all think they're invincible. That's when they get sloppy.
"Start pulling files," Thorne said. "Use our off-books people. No digital trail. Watch the public spaces. Look for body doubles. Patterns. I want everything on Brideshead, boots in their trash and men in their towers."
There was a pause, just long enough for the room to breathe.
"I want someone in Brideshead," he said at last. "Someone who knows the neighborhood. Someone they trust. Not a soldier. Someone… local. Embedded. Make them track this little ghost around without causing too many problems."
He didn't say who.
Didn't need to, he made decisions, it was Dreyfus' job to make it happen.
After a few minutes, Dreyfus gave a small nod. "There's one possibility."
"Start with that," Thorne said. "Let's see if we can peel the mask off."
He crushed the cigar out, a harsh grinding motion that left the ash flattened and dead.
It was the best way to destroy a vigilante, remove the mask and the fear and find the man behind it all.
And once he found the man… the rest was easy.
"I don't believe in ghosts," Thorne muttered sagely, an elegant smile on his face, "So whoever he is, he's a man. And men make mistakes."
Unfortunately, Rupert Thorne often forgets that he too, was but a man.
A miserable pile of secrets.