Ratcatcher (Gotham OC)

7: Unmasking Ratboy

"Where's Ratboy?"

While Harvey followed behind, a group of officers waited outside as lookout, much to Selina's dismay. Jim knew the words were a strange thing to shout as he pushed through the crowds of baffled homeless people, but with the lack of an actual name for the guy, he was at a loss with what else to call.

"Where's Ratboy?" Harvey echoed. "Has anyone seen Ratboy?"

Selina watched the detectives from a balcony. Their paces were quick and calculated, guns poised for shooting though the killer was nowhere in sight. She felt that staring was the least she could do to make sure it didn't all go pear-shaped, though if that did happen, she had no idea how to intervene without making herself a suspect.

The Flea's inhabitants hung around in groups as they gaped; kids and adults, parents with babies, misfits and nutcases and creeps. But none, as was becoming obvious, were quite as bad as Ratboy.

After hearing the shout, Otis froze. The rats, however, were quite oblivious. It had been the same with Leo when the owner of the club tried to enter the bathroom, and with Arnold when a false alarm briefly caused Otis to believe they were about to be caught.

But this wasn't a false alarm, clearly, as Jim didn't stop at the one shout. In fact, he and Harvey both kept repeating the same question, asking where Ratboy was.

That was a bit low, he thought. Whoever revealed his identity to the cops couldn't even recall his true name. Then again, maybe that was a good thing.

His little accomplices carried on chewing on the bodies, relishing in the fact that they weren't moving anymore. It made things a lot easier, seeing as flailing bodies were harder to eat than ones that simply lay still and gave in.

Otis could tell the rats to stop. He could gather them up and put them back in the bag, as much as they might protest. He could use his special tool for calling them, only really used for emergencies. But right then, his heartbeat seemingly relocating to his forehead, he did the only thing he felt he could do: run.

By the time Jim and Harvey made it up to the little clothing stall, following the directions of a young boy who said he'd passed the killer on the way out just minutes earlier, Otis had disappeared.

The room was fairly well-lit and looked after, disturbingly so due to the conditions of the three bodies behind the counter. There was no point checking for a pulse. The only way the kids could make their deaths more obvious would be for them to have crosses over their eyes and their tongues lolling out of their mouths.

"Jesus," the detectives muttered in unison, also lowering their guns at the same time.

For a moment they carried on staring in complete silence, realising how young they were under the pints of blood spilling around them.

Two girls and a boy, probably best friends. Maybe even siblings. What had they done to deserve such a fate?

The worst part, if there could even be one, was the fact that there were still many murder weapons there. Dozens of rats, all chewing on the children with determination though they'd long stopped breathing. Their dirty brown fur was stained with a metallic red, chunks of skin and brain matter scattered along their backs.

The detectives briefly thought about nudging them away with their shoes, poking them with the end of some nearby object, even shooting at one to make the rest go running, but what would be the point?

"This guy's a monster," Jim said, feeling like he could cry.

He idly picked up the only item on the counter. It was a coat, Ratboy's coat, a gaping tear from a blade at the back.