Post by storyteller0910 on Jan 24, 2012 11:03:53 GMT -5
Prologue -
Who the man was, and how he came to be walking those particular streets on that particular evening, is of little importance. The man will be gone from our story for good in just a few minutes, so let’s follow him a while and see where he takes us.
He walks quickly, with his head down and his coat pulled tight around him. His expression is tight, distracted, nervous. There was a time, long gone, when he’d have walked this same street without fear, secure in the knowledge that an unseen force watched over him – watched over the night. But that was… before.
He does not look up as he passes the tall iron gates, but he does quicken his pace even further. It happened there, behind those gates, nearly four years ago. First came the storm, worse than anyone had seen in years. Flooding, cutting the city into pieces. And then, from behind those iron gates, came the screams. Ten days those gates had remained locked, impenetrable.
And on the tenth day, the storm lifted, and everything changed.
The man glances up at the sky. Grey clouds move quickly above him, and still-distant flashes of light briefly illuminate the ravaged street. A new storm is coming, he thinks, without knowing exactly why.
When they come, they come without stealth. Three of them, all terrifyingly large, all bearing the scars and bruises of four years of urban warfare. They move toward the man slowly, in no particular hurry. He freezes in place. It is useless to run; they are faster than he is and the streets belong to them. They would catch him.
The three thugs encircle the man lazily. Their leader, a bit shorter than the rest, grins, his tongue poking out between his teeth. “Got the time, friend?” he asks. The man begins to stammer, frantically, excuses, apologies, anything to buy a few more seconds of pain-free existence. But the leader cuts him off with a mocking, sad nod. “Don’t matter, you know that. All that matters is what’s owed.” He draws a knife; to the man it looks as long as his own forearm. “And how it’s repaid.”
And then his eyes roll comically back in his head, and he pitches forward, motionless on the ground.
To his right, the man hears a commotion; the second thug has whirled about to confront a new arrival, moving out of the shadows near the iron gates so quickly that the man would have thought it nearly magical. There is a scuffle. The third thug moves toward the action, and the man – no fool he – quickly turns and looks for cover. From behind him he hears a sound like the cracking of a tree in a lightning storm; there is a wail of pain that abruptly falls silent. The man sprints down the alleyway and out of our story forever.
On the ground, outside those gates behind which a hero died, one thug regains consciousness. He cannot locate his attacker, or his weapon; he is morally certain that he will die tonight. Then he hears the voice, from behind him; he is too terrified even to turn in that direction.
Go, the voice says. Tell your boss. Tell him to tell his friends. Tell them that this isn’t their city anymore. Tell them I’m back.
“Tell them who is back?” mutters the thug, but somehow he knows the answer already, knows even before the figure steps into the light, even before he sees the eyes and the old, familiar silhouette.
I’m Batman.
Who the man was, and how he came to be walking those particular streets on that particular evening, is of little importance. The man will be gone from our story for good in just a few minutes, so let’s follow him a while and see where he takes us.
He walks quickly, with his head down and his coat pulled tight around him. His expression is tight, distracted, nervous. There was a time, long gone, when he’d have walked this same street without fear, secure in the knowledge that an unseen force watched over him – watched over the night. But that was… before.
He does not look up as he passes the tall iron gates, but he does quicken his pace even further. It happened there, behind those gates, nearly four years ago. First came the storm, worse than anyone had seen in years. Flooding, cutting the city into pieces. And then, from behind those iron gates, came the screams. Ten days those gates had remained locked, impenetrable.
And on the tenth day, the storm lifted, and everything changed.
The man glances up at the sky. Grey clouds move quickly above him, and still-distant flashes of light briefly illuminate the ravaged street. A new storm is coming, he thinks, without knowing exactly why.
When they come, they come without stealth. Three of them, all terrifyingly large, all bearing the scars and bruises of four years of urban warfare. They move toward the man slowly, in no particular hurry. He freezes in place. It is useless to run; they are faster than he is and the streets belong to them. They would catch him.
The three thugs encircle the man lazily. Their leader, a bit shorter than the rest, grins, his tongue poking out between his teeth. “Got the time, friend?” he asks. The man begins to stammer, frantically, excuses, apologies, anything to buy a few more seconds of pain-free existence. But the leader cuts him off with a mocking, sad nod. “Don’t matter, you know that. All that matters is what’s owed.” He draws a knife; to the man it looks as long as his own forearm. “And how it’s repaid.”
And then his eyes roll comically back in his head, and he pitches forward, motionless on the ground.
To his right, the man hears a commotion; the second thug has whirled about to confront a new arrival, moving out of the shadows near the iron gates so quickly that the man would have thought it nearly magical. There is a scuffle. The third thug moves toward the action, and the man – no fool he – quickly turns and looks for cover. From behind him he hears a sound like the cracking of a tree in a lightning storm; there is a wail of pain that abruptly falls silent. The man sprints down the alleyway and out of our story forever.
On the ground, outside those gates behind which a hero died, one thug regains consciousness. He cannot locate his attacker, or his weapon; he is morally certain that he will die tonight. Then he hears the voice, from behind him; he is too terrified even to turn in that direction.
Go, the voice says. Tell your boss. Tell him to tell his friends. Tell them that this isn’t their city anymore. Tell them I’m back.
“Tell them who is back?” mutters the thug, but somehow he knows the answer already, knows even before the figure steps into the light, even before he sees the eyes and the old, familiar silhouette.
I’m Batman.