Quoted By:
Roll: 62
DC: 50 (adjusted)
Result: SUCCESS
You settle down and close your eyes, the murmurs and whispers of the city growing in volume, swirling around you. You see the city through a dark filter, it's hostile, it's voice changes. It's begging. Begging for freedom.
This isn't the same voice of the city you've grown to know, you realize the view you see isn't your own from a memory. It's someone else's someone else who hears the city. The things they hear are dark and twisted.
You blink and find yourself kneeling in dirt.
Abigail Reyes, the most recent victim. She lies on her back staring into your eyes, her gaze vacant and glassy. Like two frosted marbles, transfixed on your very own eyes.
"I know you hurt.." You whisper. You can't help yourself, you always talk to them afterwards, it helps you wind down.
Your hand extends and wipes the last welling tear from her eye. "You're welcome." You say again. The city speaks to you, distorted and evil. It doesn't use words but you can follow it's questioning. Why? Why do you still fight it? Why do you not give in? You respond with action. Pale, firm flesh yields to your knife as you plunge it into Abigail's chest. She doesn't react, this isn't for her anymore it's for you.
"I won't let you make me." You say as you withdraw the knife and bring it slamming down again, feeling bone chip and break like ceramic beneath your powerful arm. "I choose who I kill." You say looking into the lights of Gotham, the eye's of the city. Watching you do your bloody work.
You stab. and stab. and stab. You keep going until the impulse leaves you completely. Your vile addiction satiated. The city mumbles by your ear. This one won't last as long as the last, or the one before that. It taunts you, it knows you can keep up your act of being a righteous killer, only taking your desires out on criminals at behest of your clients. But the city knows you'll have a drought, it knows you'll seek to fish in fuller ponds, more innocent ponds. You look down at the bloodied blade in your hand before blinking and finding yourself in a damp, warm crawlspace. Dirt everywhere, and the walls only illuminated by a small storm lantern.
You lift the knife, clean this time, and set to work doing the final part of your pact with this satanic city. You can never forget her. You can never forget anyone who fell to your blade. You have to keep them with you, keep them close, or the city wins. So you etch out a modest epitaph on the smooth stone wall, the sound of knife scraping on stone louder than squealing train brakes. You pull the knife sharply and finish the final line.
"An even 20." You say, expecting to feel some sort of relief but all you feel is empty. Empty and hungry.
