Work Text:
The Spook POV
It was the middle of the night, and the sun was still hours away from rising, although in Gotham City it always seemed like the nights stayed as long as they wanted to. Most of the time, they stayed longer than usual. With the night comes a certain stillness, a silence that mimics death.
The hallways of the apartment were darkened by the night's shadows. Oceans of pure blackness appeared in the tiniest corners. Only the light of the city outside, a metropolis that never sleeps, brought some life into the otherwise dormant penthouse. Cold marble surfaces, black leather chairs, sparkling crystal chandeliers, and modern art depicting forms that defied logic, every object the city's light touched revealed a bit more of the man who lived in these walls, high above the rest of the city. However, there was also something foreign roaming around these hallways. An entity that only revealed itself in the deepest and darkest hours of the night.
Green robes flowed through the hallways and rooms like a cloud traveling through the sky. Silently, the man walked barefoot through the empty corridors, submerging himself into the shadows of the night. He moved so quietly that he did not make a single sound. He moved so effortlessly that it seemed like even his very presence was nothing but a mere suggestion, an easily deniable superstition, a ghost story.
The green ghost stood still in the middle of the spacious living room. The city's lights matched the stars of the night sky in their number and surpassed them in their brightness. The rain-stained glass made it difficult to distinguish between the two. And yet, even with its form blurry and obscured, the city still called out to the ghost. He could hear the voices in the rain. Voices of restless souls just like he was. Pleading cries of the fallen that begged him for forgiveness, justice, and revenge so that their spirits may be able to move on and find their way to final rest.
Gotham was a cemetery, haunted by the tragedies that were written on its countless streets and alleys. This city was built by the dead and is maintained by the dead, the ghost remembered.
When he was alive, the ghost was deaf to the cries of the deceased, but now that he was one of them, they had a siren-like pull on him.
He stepped closer and closer toward the window, overwhelmed by the voices, he tried to find one that he could make out more clearly. As he did so, leaning his hands on the window, finally proof of his actual existence in this mortal world presented itself. The glass fogged up as his face approached it. The effect spooked him.
My breath? he thought, No! Dead men do not breathe! An explanation that he has told himself a hundred times by now.
Val Kaliban was a member of a covert ops team working for the United States military. His specialty was infiltration and exfiltration into enemy territory. He was so successful in sneaking in and out of these often highly secured compounds that his comrades gifted him the nickname “Spook”, an ominous case of providence.
On one mission somewhere in the Amazon rainforest two years ago, his otherwise perfect streak of successful missions stopped. It was a tiny mistake, but in his line of work, all it took was a tiny mistake for someone to die. When his enemies opened fire on him, he retreated into the rainforest, quickly losing his pursuers in the abundant greenery.
He had already run for an hour when the adrenaline gave off, and he noticed the pain all over his body. Realizing he had been shot in several places, he reached for his communication device, only to learn that his equipment was equally damaged as his body was. With his blood beginning to soak his clothes, he lay down, ready to accept his fate and die. And in Val’s eyes, he did die that day. He felt all of his energy leave him; even just sitting there, lost somewhere in the forest, was exhausting enough for him to lose consciousness.
Like flashes of lightning, his consciousness faded in and out again, turning the leaves of the forest around him into faces. Grotesque visages looked down upon him, judging him and the sins of his past life, condemning him for all the blood that was on his hands. It did not take long before the sounds of the forest, the rumbling of the clouds, the humming of the bugs, and the screeches of the birds turned into the voices of the dead.
He wanted to join this spinning vortex of souls, his very essence demanded it as the strings that tied him to this world began to snap one after another. But when the last thread was just about to be cut, the clenched fist of the undying held him back, tethering him back into the realm of the physical.
“You are not yet to join us” the ghosts that lived in his ears sang to him in a commanding choir.
“Deadman! Deadman! Deadman!” the curses the ghosts spoke to him, on that night, still rang in his ears, taunting him with the afterlife only to deny him entry. Val Kaliban died that day, of that he was sure. The shackles that tied him to this world would not burst until the ghosts of the beyond would accept him.
He decided to listen to the cries of the spirits ever since, doing their bidding and fulfilling their wishes so that they may allow him to join them. Until then, his soul was trapped in this prison of flesh that used to be his body.
The memories of his death came back to him, as he listened to the rain outside. Only when the rain suddenly stopped and silence began to creep in again did he break out of his trance and remember the man whose home he currently haunts. It is time, the Spook realized, looking back at one of the large bookshelves standing in the living room of the apartment, it is time for him to meet his ghosts.
The bedroom was at the other end of the hallway, directly across from the living room. By now, Val had lived unnoticed within these walls for two months, familiarizing himself with every little aspect of the domicile. He spent his days hidden in crevices and vents that no one knew existed and his nights working, making just a tiny bit of progress each night, but progress nonetheless - chipping off stone until the statue was ready to be revealed.
He got to know the man who lived here quite well during this time. By now, Val was probably the person who was most intimately familiar with him, even though they never really met face to face - with both of them knowing. The man was Ivan Grozno, the head of the Russian mob in Gotham City. Quite a few years ago he rose up the ranks of the criminal underworld, just as his boss did.
The power, influence, and above all money quickly went to Groznos's head, making him desire wasteful luxury items and pointless prestige objects above all else. Like offerings in a pharaoh's tomb, Val thought as he wandered past all of the intricately designed furniture and expensive works of art in the apartment, knowing that the man who owned them had neither the interest nor the capabilities to appreciate them beyond the way they elevated his status.
When he finally arrived in the bedroom Grozno lay before him, snoring obnoxiously. Looking at the man he could hear many spirits call out his name, the longer he looked, the more there seemed to be. It was obvious that this man had enough blood on his hands to drown in. Justice, Retribution, Revenge! the ghosts called out from every corner of Gotham. Val would be happy to oblige with every single one of their sadistic wishes. But there was one cry among them, a faint, sad whisper, easily overlooked, that despite not being the loudest was nonetheless the most persistent. He knew that it was this plea that he had to fulfill.
In one swift movement, the Spook turned around, leaving the dark bedroom once more. The haunting was about to begin, but for the moment, he wouldn’t face Grozno.
In the last few weeks, he had prepared the apartment for this moment. He laid wires and ropes where no one would spot them and installed speakers where no one would ever notice them, using the same gadgets and technologies he used during his time as a soldier, now for completely different purposes. Instead of using them to conceal himself even further, he used them to be noticed.
The irony was not lost on Val; however, it needed to be done. A certain theatricality was necessary for these things; it was like preparing a table for a séance. Ghosts are stronger if one believes in them, as Val had come to learn, and tonight Grozno will be confronted with his ghosts, and there shall be no wall of skepticism behind which he can cower.
A loud bang echoed through the apartment, as Val cut the rope on which one of the chandeliers in the living room was hanging. Glass shards and broken metal flew across the room, mirroring the raindrops that were still visible on the windows.
The sound immediately woke Grozno up. He practically jumped out of bed and had already grabbed his gun out of his nightstand before his second foot touched the ground.
Slowly, the visibly nervous gangster walked down the main hallway. Wearing only his pyjama pants the amateurish attempts at being stealthy were more comical than anything in Val's eyes, but he was no man for laughing - never has been.
When Grozno came to the end of the hallway, he looked around both corners that lead into the main living room, trying to make out anything in the dark shadows of the place he called home. When he saw nothing, his posture relaxed slightly. He lowered his gun and took another step forward to inspect the fallen chandelier, only to step into one of the glass shards.
“Fucking shit!” the mobster cursed as he held up his foot, inspecting the bleeding cut on his sole.
“Scared of a little blood, Grozno?” the Spook spoke, his voice seeming to come from everywhere all at once.
Grozno was so startled he nearly fell over into the rest of the glass shards, instead, he managed to capture his balance by stomping down his wounded foot. His face contorted in pain and fear.
“Who is there?” he yelled into the apartment, as he looked around frantically, every shadow around him seemed to promise death.
“A messenger” Spook answered after a little while.
“Yeah?” Grozno challenged him, “I have a message for you as well”. He aimed his gun at the darkest corners of the living room and pulled the trigger, moving on to the next as he did so. He only noticed that his gun did not fire on the third try. Quickly, he checked the magazine, only to realize that it is full.
“What the fuck” Grozno asked as he looked at his gun, oblivious to the fact that the firing pin had been removed days prior. But he had no time to come to that conclusion himself, as the booming voice of the Spook caught his attention again.
“You will fire that gun no more! The ghosts already cry out for all the pain you caused them! You have caused enough harm for a lifetime. Tonight, it will end. Tonight, you will join the ghosts you helped create!”
Vals' words lingered in the air for a bit. Grozno still seemed more occupied with figuring out where the voice was coming from than actually listening to what was said. It doesn’t matter, Val thought, looking from his hiding place, his fate is sealed, no matter if he knows it or not.
“So you are about to kill me? Did I get that right, huh? Tell me who do you work for?” Grozno shouted into the night, trying to get another chance to locate the specter who was talking to him.
“There are many ghosts who wish for your death. But tonight I chose to obey the commands of the one closest to you, the cries of the cursed soul that has been at your side for the longest” the Spook answered the question, however, the mobster still didn’t seem to understand what he was saying.
“Are you still feigning obliviousness? Or are you really that deaf? Listen! Listen and you shall hear her cries to be reunited with you!”
Another moment of silence got hold of the apartment. Slowly Grozno took another step forward, hoping to learn more from a different position when suddenly another kind of sound crept through the darkness.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP
A heavy knocking sound could be heard on the cold marble floor. Startled again, Grozno took another look around before he located the source. One of the bookshelves rocked back and forth. The shelf was made out of massive wood and filled to the brim with books Grozno never had read. No human was strong enough to move it like this, but a spirit had powers far surpassing those of any mortal human.
Now, finally, a look of dreadful realization began to set in on Groznos's face.
“Do you realize now?” the Spook taunted him, “Do you hear who is calling you back to her side again?” as the Spook finished his sentence, the massive shelf finally tipped over, creating a sound so loud that it could have easily been mistaken for thunder.
Behind the fallen-over bookshelf was the product of Val's month-long work. Slowly, using only his hands and a chisel, he had carved out the hidden figure that found her unfortunate final rest in the walls of this newly built penthouse. Between the carved open bits of concrete, the near skeletal remains of a woman could be seen. Her clothes were dusty and torn, her head covered with a plastic bag, revealing her toothy grin.
“No, no, no” Grozno shook his head in terror, wanting to back away but his legs were too scared to run.
“Do you hear her cries now Ivan? She is calling for you. She is begging for you to be by her side. But not out of love. The pain that her soul cries out onto the aether is of a different nature. Oh, how she yearns to see you by her side, caught in the same hell of concrete and dust you condemned her to!” the Spook said forebodingly.
“No one saw me do it! No one! Who told you?!” Scared and frantically looking all around him Grozno yelled, “How did you know!?”.
Groznos screams were cut short, however, as a green cloak fell from the ceiling towards him. As the Spook landed on the gangster, he knocked him over, his body falling into some of the glass, covering him in cuts as he squirmed for his life like a caught rabbit.
Before he knew what had happened to him Val had gotten hold of both of his arms and tied them behind his back with a zip tie.
After that, a few blows to the head followed before he also tied down his legs. Then he slowly dragged the delirious and bleeding gangster over to the open hole in the wall. He tied another plastic bag around his head before putting him in the space next to his dead lover.
Val collected the small servo motors he had mounted to the back of the bookshelves walls and inspected the apartment around him for a final time. There was still some work to be done for her spirit to be satisfied, but the smile on her skull already seemed pleased for the moment.