#ark m

Malum

Above the Gotham City Police Department’s major crimes unit, a spotlight pierced the night sky. On the streets below, a crowd had begun to gather, held back by a thin line of uniformed officers.

A Gotham City News van, its satellite dish raised high, was parked precariously close to the action. Standing in front of it, framed by the chaos and the flashing blue and red lights, was Vicki Vale, a determined young reporter with an eager camera crew.

"Vicki Vale, live from outside the GCPD Major Crimes Unit, where monster is causing terror," she reported into her microphone. "Detective Harvey Bullock is confirmed to be inside, possibly aided by the Batman of rumor. A few minutes ago, officers evacuated and the sound of gunfire followed. Police sources are confirming that the threat is not human, but the same amorphous, clay-like entity that was involved in the murder of mob boss Johnny Sabatino."

She paused, adjusting her earpiece as the roar from inside the building was punctuated by a distinct, high-pitched HISS.

"This terrifying creature, which we at the Gotham City News are dubbing 'Clayface’, is currently holding the police headquarters hostage. Gotham is holding its breath. Can this Clayface be stopped? We will continue to keep you all updated."

The air was thick with tension the Major Crimes Unit. Harvey Bullock, ducked behind a desk for cover, had his revolver ready to attack. He heard the sickening sloshing and gurgling of Clayface and its cracking form moving, punctuated by the frantic THWIP of Batman’s cryo-batarangs.

Batman was a blur of black and grey, constantly moving to avoid the monster’s massive, flailing limbs. He launched a volley of cryo-batarangs, aiming for the creature's core mass. Two hit, instantly frosting over sections of Clayface’s chest and leg.

"You can't freeze me forever, Bat!" Clayface bellowed, his voice muffled and distorted by the spreading ice stiffening his form. He brought an enormous, rock-hard fist down, smashing a desk into splinters. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor, briefly stunning Batman.

"I just need to freeze you long enough," Batman grunted, leaping back. He rolled over the broken remains of the desk and fired his grappling hook, latching onto a ceiling support beam. He zipped upward, narrowly avoiding a sweeping clay arm that obliterated a nearby whiteboard.

Bullock heard the monster’s shift in focus. The enormous frozen patch on Clayface’s chest was already bubbling and cracking as the cellular regeneration fought back the extreme cold.

"Hey, ugly!" Bullock yelled, drawing the monster’s attention. He threw a heavy, empty fire extinguisher at Clayface’s head. It bounced harmlessly off the mass of living sludge, but it bought Batman a precious second.

Slamming against the support beam, Batman kicked off and plunged back down, deploying a dense cloud of smoke pellets. He landed directly in front of the immobilized statue of Clayface, now obscured by the swirling smoke.

"Bullock! Get out of the line of fire!" Batman ordered.

From within the smoke, Clayface let out a frustrated roar. His form began to stretch and thin, adapting to the confined space. A massive, spiked tendril shot out of the smoke, scraping the ceiling as it sought the vigilante.

Batman anticipated the attack and used the creature’s own mass as a foothold. He sprinted up the undulating arm, dodging two more sweeping attacks before reaching the frozen section of the monster’s shoulder. He plunged a final, larger cryo-charge into the vulnerable spot, then immediately dropped back to the floor.

The final charge triggered a critical system failure in the creature’s regeneration. The frost spread outward with terrifying speed, encasing the ten-foot monster in a rapidly expanding shell of rock-hard ice. Clayface let out a final, agonizing shriek—a sound of rending stone and trapped liquid—before he was completely, violently frozen, his statue-like form falling forward with a deafening CRACK onto the wreckage of the floor.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the dripping sound of water from a broken pipe and the labored breathing of the two men.

Bullock staggered forward, holster still smoking, and stared at the immense, frozen monument of their enemy. "Holy hell, Bat. What is that thing?"

Batman stepped past him, pulling a containment net from his belt. He didn't answer, focused only on securing the behemoth. "Gordon, his family—are they out?"

Bullock nodded, wiping the remaining tear gas residue from his eyes. "Jim got them out through the back. They’re safe. You saved the kid, Bat. And you saved us. I guess that means I gotta let you go… for now."

Batman paused in his work, glancing at Bullock. With a final tug, the net was secured around the frozen mass of Todd Russell. "He needs to be kept on ice, in deep freeze storage. If he thaws, pray."

The sound of police sirens and approaching footsteps filled the hallway. Captain Gordon, having safely delivered his children to Dr. Thompkins, returned with a squad of uniformed officers, guns drawn. He stopped dead at the sight of the chaos and the towering frozen monster.

"What in God’s name happened here, Bullock?" Gordon demanded, his eyes wide.

"The Bat and I took down this freak," Bullock stated, holstering his gun and pulling out a fresh cigar. He looked over his shoulder at the retreating figure of the Batman, who was already disappearing into the smoke-filled upper rafters.

Gordon looked from the detective to the colossal, frozen Clayface. The vigilante was already gone, leaving the impossible cleanup for the police. Gordon sighed, running a hand over his face. "Get the fire department in here. And someone call forensics. Tell them to bring a refrigerated truck. A big one."

He looked up at the fractured skylight where Batman had entered. The wavering beam of the makeshift spotlight was still cutting through the night. "God help us all," Gordon muttered, "if the criminals start looking like that."

Later that week, the story of the 'Clayface' monster had saturated the Gotham media cycle, quickly becoming another bizarre legend in a city full of them. Bruce Wayne was physically exhausted and, at the behest of Alfred, decided he needed a night off.

He pulled up to a trendy, neon-lit bar downtown called The Flame Lily. Inside, the music was loud, the lighting was low, and the cocktails were expensive—exactly the kind of distraction he needed. He spotted Jack Daggett and Harleen Quinzel tucked into a corner booth. Jack, dressed impeccably in a stylish velvet jacket, was laughing, while Harleen traced patterns on the condensation of her glass.

"Bruce! You made it," Jack greeted him warmly, gesturing to the empty seat. "I figured you needed a break from your playboy lifestyle."

"Something like that," Bruce replied, sliding into the booth. He ordered a bourbon on the rocks. "Hard week at the office."

Harleen smiled, her eyes sharp and assessing. "You look tired, Bruce."

Bruce chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Let's just say I closed a very difficult, very persistent... 'deal.'"

Jack raised his martini glass. "Seriously, though, this whole 'Clayface' thing is insane. Vicki Vale is calling it the new 'urban terror.'"

"Vicki Vale is paid to report exciting stories," Bruce dismissed smoothly. "But yes, it was a terrifying situation. Good thing the police managed to contain it."

"Contain it? They froze it, Bruce!" Jack laughed, leaning back. "It took some vigilante in a bat costume to put the thing on ice. The city's talking about nothing else. They're calling him a hero."

Harleen leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "My professional opinion, as a psychologist, is that 'Clayface' is a tragedy. A man turned into a monstrous, uncontrollable form."

"A monster nonetheless," Bruce countered, swirling the ice in his glass. He felt the phantom ache of the clay fist that had slammed him into the wall. "Some things can't be reasoned with, Doctor. They just need to be neutralized."

Jack, catching the serious tone, quickly changed the subject. "Forget the monsters and the billionaires. I have a surprise. Harleen and I are celebrating. We’re moving in together—downtown apartment, very chic, very adult."

"That's wonderful news, congratulations," Bruce said, offering a genuine smile. He raised his glass to them, a secret, internal victory mixing with his genuine pleasure for his friends. The city was safe—for now. He had neutralized the first real monster, and tonight, he would simply be Bruce Wayne, celebrating with his friends.

The colossal, frozen form of Todd Russell—Clayface—was transported via a massive, refrigerated truck to a high-security holding facility. The official police reports listed the destination as a specialized, deep-freeze evidence vault under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense. Captain Gordon and Detective Bullock were satisfied to have the monster contained, believing the problem was solved.

However, the Department of Defense detail was a carefully constructed deception. Instead of a sterile vault, the truck was rerouted under heavy, unmarked escort to Arkham Island. The vehicle bypassed the Arkham Asylum proper, instead driving passed the grounds to the dilapidated sign that read "Ark  m"—the same area Oswald Cobblepot had visited days earlier.

Under the cover of night, a hidden elevator descended deep beneath the deteriorated grounds. The frozen Russell was lowered into a vast, subterranean laboratory that hummed with advanced, if ethically questionable, technology: the secret heart of Project M.

In the center of the lab, a manic scientist with sharp, intelligent eyes and an intense focus—Dr. John Stacy—oversaw the transfer. He circled the massive, frozen block of clay, running a gloved hand over the icy surface with a look of profound reverence.

"Magnificent," Stacy whispered to his lead technician, a grim-faced woman in a Project M uniform. "The subject achieved full polymer integration and latent metahuman ability realization. This exciting!"

"The Batman neutralized him, Doctor," the technician noted dryly.

Stacy waved a hand dismissively. "A temporary setback. Freezing merely halts the reaction; it doesn't reverse it. The sample is perfect. The trauma and the subsequent fight hyper-charged his cellular structure. We’ll make him a template."

Stacy turned to an assistant who brought him a list of names. The list of names were: Basil Karlo, Sondra Fuller, Matt Hagen, Preston Payne, Peter Malley, John Carlinger, and Johnny Williams.

"So many names," Stacy declared, his voice rising with mad excitement. "So many Clayfaces." He hugged the clipboard to his chest. We will usher in a new age of supervillains, not seen since the days of the JLA."

In Crime Alley, two of Johnny Sabatino’s former henchmen, Frankie and Lenny, pulled up to a modest but well-kept brownstone. The home belonged to Peyton Sabatino, Johnny’s widow.

"Think she’ll cut us in on Johnny’s moola?" Lenny asked, nervously adjusting his tie.

Frankie, a large man with a perpetually tired expression, shrugged. "We just gotta make sure she’s alright. The boss always said we look after his wife if he ever kicked the bucket."

They knocked, and the door was opened by a woman who was clearly Peyton, but something was off about her, something below the surface. Her clothing was impeccably neat but dated, and her eyes held a frantic, slightly unhinged gleam.

"Oh, hello, boys," Peyton chirped, her voice thin and overly sweet. "Are you here to see Johnny? He’s been expecting company."

Frankie and Lenny exchanged a worried glance. Johnny was dead.

"Ma’am, we heard what happened. We’re sorry for your loss. We just wanted to check on you," Frankie said gently.

Peyton stepped aside, gesturing into the living room. It was disturbingly clean, filled with doilies and porcelain figurines. But the centerpiece was an oversized, crudely carved wooden dummy seated on the couch. It was dressed in a miniature version of Johnny Sabatino’s favorite pinstripe suit, and its wooden face, though stiff, bore a faint, permanent, carved sneer. His signature scar was carved into the left cheek.

"Nonsense, boys. Johnny’s right here," Peyton insisted, walking over to the dummy. She picked it up, cradling it like a child. "He’s been working on his speeches, haven’t you, darling?"

She sat the dummy on her lap, and with unnatural stillness in her face, she began to move its mouth. A new voice, rough and gravelly—a pitch-perfect impersonation of the late Johnny Sabatino—emerged from her throat, seemingly from the dummy itself.

"Speeches? Nah, not really, Frankie. Just countin’ my blessings that the Clayface dope didn’t finish the job on my empire. What’s the word on the street?"

Frankie and Lenny stared, speechless, as Peyton Sabatino—or whatever was speaking through her—interrogated them about the current state of the Gotham underworld. The voice was so convincing, the illusion so complete, that for a terrifying moment, they felt they were back in the room with their old, ruthless boss. The wooden dummy had become the true, living face of Johnny Sabatino's rage and ambition.

"Well, what’s it gonna be, numbskulls?" the dummy’s voice demanded. "You gonna stick with the dame, or you gonna stick with the real brains of the operation, good old Scarface?"

Frankie stepped back, swallowing hard. "We—we gotta go, ma’am. We’ll check in soon."

"Tell Maroni the word is out: the Sabatino family is back in business," Peyton said, smiling sweetly, while the dummy’s carved sneer seemed to deepen.

The two henchmen fled the house, leaving Peyton alone in the immaculate living room with her wooden companion. The death of Johnny “Scarface” Sabatino had not ended his criminal influence; it had merely warped it into something far more disturbing. Scarface had arrived in Gotham.

The following morning, Oswald Cobblepot returned to Thorne Tower, his rage from the previous day having cooled into a glacial, focused resentment. He no longer hobbled; he stalked, his cane tapping a defiant rhythm on the marble floor. He didn't bother to knock on Rupert Thorne’s executive office door; he simply flung it open.

Thorne was on a phone call, laughing heartily. He looked up, his smile freezing instantly when he saw Oz’s expression.

"I’ll call you back," Thorne snapped into the receiver before slamming it down. "What is it, gimp?"

Oswald took two slow, deliberate steps into the room. "I came to tell you that you are finished, Rupert."

Thorne scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair. "Finished? Because of a rubber-faced lackey who melted? I’m Rupert Thorne! I own this city! You are a pathetic, deformed little freak. You should be kissing my ring for the scraps I toss you."

"You threw a skull at me," Oswald stated, his voice flat and dangerously quiet. "You called me a gimp. You have treated harshly for years, Rupert, and all the while, I was doing your actual work."

"This is mutiny!" Thorne roared, pushing himself up to stand.

Oswald smiled—a thin, cruel line that showed his crooked teeth. "I think you misunderstand the nature of our business, Rupert. In the crime world, when the boss is weak, the boss is replaced."

Thorne laughed again, a harsh, dismissive sound. "You think you can replace me? You barely stand up straight, you twitchy little freak! Get out of my office before I have my men—"

Before Thorne could finish his threat, the heavy office door slammed shut on its own with tremendous force, rattling the panoramic windows. The lights in the office flickered, then died, plunging the room into shadow.

"Your men are otherwise occupied, Rupert," a deep, gravelly voice, heavy with a Hispanic accent, rumbled from the darkened corner of the office, near the bar cart. The voice was utterly devoid of emotion.

Oswald’s eyes, adjusting to the gloom, narrowed as he saw the figure. It was immense—a towering man whose massive body was strapped with what looked like reinforced leather and a network of tubes pumping a glowing green fluid into his arms and neck. The man wore a dark, form-fitting mask that covered his entire face, leaving only two menacing, triangular red eyes.

Thorne staggered back, tripping over a rug. "W-who are you? What is this? Oz, what did you do?"

"I found someone to take care of our bat problem, Rupert," Oz said, his smile widening with malicious satisfaction. "And remove our weaknesses.”

The giant stepped out of the shadows. He moved with a heavy, purposeful gait, the floor creaking under his immense weight. He paused for a moment, looking at Thorne.

"Rupert Thorne," the man stated, his voice a guttural bass. "Your are a predator of this city. I am the apex predator with no boundaries."

Thorne scrambled backward until his back hit the glass wall. "Stay back! I’ll give you anything! Money! Power! Just kill the bird!"

The giant ignored Thorne, his attention fixed on the crime boss’s neck. "I do not want money. I want the Bat. You are simply… en la camino."

Bane moved with frightening speed for his size. He grabbed Rupert Thorne by the throat with one enormous hand. Thorne’s feet swung uselessly a few inches off the floor as he choked. With a sickening, wet SNAP, Bane broke Thorne’s neck. The crime boss’s body went instantly limp. Bane tossed the corpse into the corner like a sack of garbage.

Oswald Cobblepot let out a slow, satisfied breath, the sound whistling slightly through his crooked teeth. He tapped his cane once on the floor, the sound ringing in the sudden quiet.

Kid grimm from ark m that im planning to release on Wednesday!

In Thorne Tower, two hours after the fight at the Daggett chemical plant, the hobbling goon Oswald Cobblepot entered the office of the crime boss Rupert Thorne. Oz had a bad leg that required a leg brace and a cane. He was by no means attractive. The lanky man had unkempt hair, a sharply pointed nose, heterochromic anisocoria eyes, and a mouth of crooked teeth. He seemed nervous.

“Boss,” Oz said to announce himself.

Thorne swiveled his chair around and put on a warm smile. “Do you have news on our rodent problem?”

“That’s just it, sir. The hired gun is… missing.”

Rupert’s smile dropped into a frown. “Missing? What of the Batman?”

Oz hesitated. “Some say that they saw someone like him leaving.”

Now Thorne was enraged and annoyed. He grabbed a black ceramic skull from his and threw it hard, knocking the cane out of his hand. Oz landed on his bad leg and made pained noises.

“All that money only to get a failure! Not to mention that we lost government property!”

Oz grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. “Maybe we can find a replacement.”

“Like what!? Just get out, you penguin gimp!”

Oswald composed himself and left the room. A rage had been quietly building deep within him. He despised how Thorne treated him and felt that the organization needed a change in management.

Meanwhile, the crime boss Johnny Sabatino and his goons were stealing boxes from a Queen Industries delivery truck. Batman was stalking them from the shadows. One by one, he snatched them up and left them tied up where the police would find them later. All that was left of Sabatino himself.

Batman loomed over Sabatino, casting a menacing shadow over him. When the crime boss spun around with his gun to shoot the vigilante, Batman grabbed the firearm and yanked it out of his hand.

“You’re supposed tah be dead!” Sabatino shouted.

“You’re done, Sabatino,” ordered Batman.

Before a knockout punch, he noticed Sabatino’s gaze fall upon something past the threatening vigilante. This thing scared the mobster worse than anything. Before Batman could look behind him, a glob of pinkish goop hit Sabatino in the head and stuck him to the back of a truck like a glob of glue.

Batman caught a shadowy glimpse of the creature. It had a misshapen, humanoid figure, but it was far too lumpy. Its constitution was almost like clay. Parts of it fell and dripped off like mud, but were drawn back to it. He had no time to examine this thing much, as he had to free Sabatino before he suffocated. Unfortunately, another larger glob that encased his torso and pinned him to the ground.

“You tried to kill me,” it said with a voice that sounded like it was gargling liquid. “You will pay. I don’t even care about the money. This is pro bono.”

Batman grunted. “Alfred… need… Batmobile.”

The globby clump encasing Sabatino’s head slithered back to the creature, allowing the dead body of the crime boss to fall to the ground. The thing slowly approached with the intent to kill Batman. It’s form gradually lit, but only briefly before the Batmobile drove into it. The creature splattered on a wall like paint.

As Batman tried to get into his vehicle, the clay monster was beginning to reform itself. As it reached near completion, the vigilante threw his batarangs at it, but they just went through its goopy form and did no visible damage. Its hand grew and grabbed him, tossing him hard into a wall. Batman groaned and struggled to pick himself up.

Before this clay-like monstrosity could finish its attack, it heard police sirens and saw the lights approaching. Whatever it was, it dissolved into a puddle and retreated into the shadows. Batman was able to crawl into the Batmobile, and it sped away seconds before the police showed up.

Two police officers stopped their cars near the body of the dead Johnny Sabatino, while the others sped after Batman. One was a rugged, unshaven, portly man with a cigar in his mouth, wearing a dark trench coat and a fedora. The other was a ginger-headed man with strong features, a push-broom mustache, and square glasses, wearing a tan trenchcoat. They were Detective Harvey Bullock and Captain Jim Gordon.

“Looks like ole Johnny’s not gonna be a problem no more,” the one police man stated as he put out his cigar. “Think the Bat did it, Jim?”

Captain Gordon knelt and looked at the dead crime boss, noticing pieces of sludge on his face.. “No. I don’t know what did. Get forensics.”

As they examined the scene, they were unaware of the creature seeping into the trunk of their car. Something terrible was coming their way. The Batman might be their only hope.

Some time later, Oswald Cobblepott drove up to the gates leading to Arkham Island, the home of the Arkham Asylum for the criminally insane. He smoked a cigarette before pushing the gates open and driving across the bridge.

He hobbled with a flashlight around the grounds outside the Arkham Asylum property lines. The dead grass crunched under his feet. Soon, his light shines across an old wooden sign as a dedication to some event that happened on Arkham Island over a century ago. Some of the letters making up the word “Arkham” had long fallen off, leaving “Ark  m” in its place.

Near the sign was an old drain about 5 feet in circumference. He got closer and listened. What he heard were pained screams and howls. There was the faint electric whirl of tools being used, followed by squelches and cracks. It sounded like a horror show.

The cocking of a gun made him spin around as fast as he possibly could. He was faced with a lean man in a suit with an armed man in a guard outfit. The suited man smiled brightly.