Onomatopoeia

Shhhh

So... Yeah. I'm kinda nervous ¡cause I have only read some people in the Arrow Fandom (yeah, not in gotham) talking vaguely about this theory... But hey! I rlly like it! So I take the time to investigate a little about it

So, if the drabble is not enough to put you in context: There is a dc Villain called Onomatopoeia. He only speaks in them, imitating the sounds around him. Apparently, he hates vigilantes and tries to hunt and collect every mask he can.

The funny part about him is that he is really smart and sneaky, so nobody has ever discover his true identity. He even have a normal life and a happy family.

This theory is not that close to canon, because Onomatopoeia talked in some issues -whit out his villain disguise- , but hey, this is Gotham! And all the other things screams Martin so... A Gotham Versión of this villain would be awesome.

Also: English is not my native language, so, apologies in advance for any grammar mistake.

Disclaimer: Gotham is owned by Fox, Warner Brothers TV and Detective Comics.

--

He sneaked in through a window. It was just around nine o'clock and the sky was still not too dark, so he had to be careful that none of the neighbors were able to see him. There was nobody at home. The lights told him so. His watch also did. He turned on the light in the living room and verified that his gloves had not left a single blood mark.
No. It had been a clean murder, not a drop spilled on his dark suit.

He walked with only one goal on mind: The study room, the one with so many booksellers and a few lamps. He took the liberty to lock the door once he could access. Just behind the desk, the book that caught his eye was a grayish encyclopedia, the letter "T". Gently, he took the book and placed it on the table. The furniture made a slight noise, so faint he could barely hear it, revealing a series of masks of different sizes and colors right away.

The blue mask with fine white details around the eyes that he held in his hands was perfect for his bizarre collection. He would place it next to ... that gray one. They were the easiest to get. He knew this was going to be an easy job, but he didn't think the woman would be so naive. She didn't hear a single footstep. Hidden on that roof, she fell immediately into Onomatopeya's trap.

- Sshh ... - He repeated with some mockery. It was all she could hear before he covered her mouth and cut her throat cleanly. Blood fell on some tall balconies. Her body would surely decorate the newspapers the next day while his secret identity would be stored in one of his glass domes, his new decoration.

Finally, he took off the white bull's-eye mask and let out a snort, feeling proud of his night hunt. He sat across the desk, ruffling her brown hair, adjusting the curls that his disguise concealed perfectly. Two, four, six ... twelve hunts already. Some new vigilantes, some others who were more renowned, at least in their areas of action. Only one defeat, but many victories ... He liked what he had obtained.

He cracked his fingers, remembering a certain detail: The excuse he had made up to go out for a snack. After a small change of clothes, he hid in another compartment of the fake bookshop all the black clothes he was wearing. The mask, boots, the raincoat, even the weapons. Dressing as you daily do was better to relax at home. The neat white shirt, the impeccable gray suit, the striped black tie, always matching.

Before closing the wooden door, he pulled out a white bag that protected its content from the blood from his raincoat. It was a letter. As always, an elegant black envelope with purple edges. As the years passed, his father had become even more elegant and subtle.