Untitled

Gotham City was a city of shadows, and Rachel Dawes had become one of them. The night she died, the night the Joker blew up the hospital, Harvey Dent had gone mad and Jim Gordon’s wife and kids were taken hostage, Batman had come to rescue her. He’d saved her from the Joker’s henchmen, then he’d saved her from Two-Face, but he hadn’t been able to save her from the bomb that was strapped to a man’s chest in a cheap nurse costume.

The bomb went off, and Rachel was gone.

That was three years ago.

Now Rachel stood on a rooftop in Gotham City as the sun set behind her. She wore black leather armor with red accents over a full-body black suit. A long red cape hung down from her shoulders. Her face was hidden behind a sleek black mask with red lenses for eyes. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders.

She looked out across the city with eyes that glowed like embers in the fading light. Crime ran rampant here. The criminals ruled the streets while those who were supposed to protect them were just as corrupt as those they were meant to stop.

Rachel had seen enough.

In the past three years she’d been trained by an underground organization that operated in the shadows of Gotham City. They taught her how to fight and how to move silently through the night. They gave her gadgets and weapons, but most importantly they showed her what it meant to be truly invisible.

They called themselves The Phoenix Society because they believed that just like a phoenix rises from its own ashes, so too could Gotham City rise from its own corruption.

Rachel believed it too.

She leapt off of the rooftop and glided through the air on wings made of fireproof fabric stretched between metal frames attached to her arms and legs. She soared above the city streets until she spotted a group of men gathered around an old woman who clutched her purse to her chest.

Rachel landed in the middle of the group, her wings retracting as she did. The men turned to face her, their eyes wide with fear.

“Leave her alone,” Rachel growled.

The men hesitated for a moment before one of them stepped forward. He was big and burly with a shaved head and tattoos covering his arms.

“Who do you think you are?” he sneered.

Rachel didn’t answer. Instead, she lashed out with a kick that sent him sprawling to the ground. She spun around and delivered a punch that knocked another man out cold. She used her grappling hook to disarm a third man who was brandishing a knife.

The remaining two men turned and ran.

Rachel helped the old woman to her feet and returned her purse. Then she was gone, disappearing into the night just as quickly as she had come.

News of the mysterious vigilante spread quickly through Gotham City. They called her The Phoenix because like the mythical bird, she rose from the ashes of crime and corruption to bring justice to those who had been failed by the system.

Some people loved The Phoenix. They saw her as a hero, someone who was willing to do what it took to make Gotham City safe again. Others hated her. They saw her as nothing more than a criminal herself, someone who took the law into their own hands and acted above it.

But no one knew who she really was or where she came from or why she did what she did.

No one knew that underneath that sleek black mask with red lenses for eyes was Rachel Dawes, alive and well, ready to take on anyone who stood in her way.