Desperate Times

Chapter 1

Everything Burns

The three men sitting, playing poker and smoking poor-quality cigarettes in an empty warehouse in the Narrows, would be called by almost everybody, up to and including them, very bad people. But in Gotham it turns out you could make a very respectable living being a very bad person.

Currently, they were discussing topics ranging from "Son of a bitch it's cold!" to "Shut the fuck up and deal the fuckin' cards."

They were truly gentlemen of great quality, thought the man hiding in the rafters.

The largest of the three looked at his watch.
"Boss is late. Again."
The one dealing, a bald man with a skull tattooed on the back of his head, looked up.
"Yeah? So?"
The big one shrugged.
"Just wondering if he's still all there, you know? He's always showing up at weird times, never looks you in the eye, always twitching, all that shit. He makes me nervous."
The bald one grinned.
"Awww, Bruce, you don't gotta be afraid. I'll protect you."
"Hey, fuck you. It's weird is all I'm saying."
Bruce glowered.
The third man raised an eyebrow.
"Well, think about it. He got both his legs busted by the Bat, may he rot in hell, then got halfway crushed to death in that car crash. Even all these years later, he's bound to be a little jittery."
Bruce looked at his cards reflectively.
"I guess. Still, you wonder if he's fit to be outside of a padded cell, let alone running this operation. I mean, come on Jimmy, you telling me you never thinks its weird that a fuckin' psych patient is a mob boss?"
Jimmy laughed.
"In this town? I'm surprised he ain't runnin' for fuckin' mayor."

As the three men continued to deal the next hand, the rusting door of the warehouse opened with slightly less noise than someone butchering a live dolphin.
An elderly man in a grey suit stepped in, looking around warily. He walked with a cane, and limped heavily. His face and hands were covered in scars, and he kept looking around at something that he never seemed to be able to see.

"You boys talking about me again? I'm flattered."
The voice was like sandpaper.
The three men jumped to their feet, looking guilty.
"No mister Maroni, we was just-"
"Shut up Bruce. I don't care what you think about me, so long as you like getting paid and do what you're told."
Jimmy shrugged.
"Sounds fair enough to me. Are we ready to go then mister Maroni?"
Maroni nodded.
"Good kid. And yes, Sionis's men will be making their delivery in forty-five minutes, and we need to make sure that-"

People often think that it's big, loud sounds that you notice most, but it's not. Big sounds are usually general, public sounds, and as such not your problem. It's the little, personal, sounds, that get your attention.
Such as the small click of a door locking.

All four men turned as one to look at the door Maroni had just come through.
They saw a small man, maybe five seven, turning from the now locked door to stare at them. He was completely bald, even his eyebrows, and his skin had the stretched, reddened look of someone who's been burnt again, and again. The only visible part of his face was his eyes, the rest hidden beneath a black industrial respirator, and after looking at his eyes, you really, really wished they were hidden too.
He was wearing what remained of a pair of black, fire-retardant coveralls, the entire top half was missing, and he had translucent cables full of some clear liquid wrapped around his arms and chest- wait. No, not wrapped around him. Wrapped through him.
He had an elderly hunting rifle over his shoulder, and what looked like an oxygen tank strapped to his back. To the gawking mobsters, he looked like the devil on a bad day.

All four men stared at this apparition. Then, voicing their collective thoughts, Maroni said:
"Who in the hell are you?"

The man raised his hands as if in welcome.
"What's in a name? A fire by any other name would still burn, would it not? Who I am does not matter. I'm just glad you've finally decided to join us Mr. Maroni. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it!"
His voice was slightly distorted by the mask, but was still light, pleasant even, with a very cultured Oxford accent. If a voice could be described as manicured, this one would be.

Bruce looked at his boss.
"Boss, you want him gone?"
"Yeah. I do."
The mountain of a man stepped towards the apparition.
"You heard the boss, you'd best leave before you get hurt."
You could almost see the smile.
"Oh, I don't think so my good man. That wouldn't be any fun."
A knife appeared in Bruce's hand as if by magic, and he lunged with surprising speed.
The man stepped to left, hands clasped nonchalantly in front of him, as if he was allowing someone to pass him on the sidewalk. Almost as an afterthought, he turned as the huge man sailed past him, and delivered a vicious kick to his lower back with a heavy work boot, slamming him into the concrete wall with a sickening crack.

The other two thugs were already reaching for their guns as the man continued his turn, spinning to stretch an arm at each of them, hands open, palms pushed forward.
It was at this point that Maroni noticed that at the base of each of the man's hands there was what appeared to be an opening to a tube, covered in wire mesh.
Before he could register this, clear liquid sprayed from both of the man's hands, hitting both of his men square in the face, causing them to stumble and lower their weapons.
In the moment of confusion, the apparition produced what appeared to be a modified aerosol can, and a Zippo lighter from the pocket of his overalls.

Maroni suddenly realized what the man was doing.
"Shit."
He said, and tried to turn his back.

The flame blossomed from the out held lighter a good six feet in front of the man, lighting both thugs instantly.

Maroni turned and held his hands over his ears to try to drown out the screams.

A minute or so later, the nightmarish man kicked over what was left of the bodies, and helped the ageing mob boss to his feet.

"I do apologize Mr. Maroni, but in my defence, they started it."
Maroni looked up at him as he was gently but forcefully pushed into a chair.
"What are you?"
The man turned, and began to spray the room around them with the fluid from his wrists.
He called over his shoulder.
"Just a man who takes his hobbies seriously Mr. Maroni."
He finished coating the majority of the room in the flammable liquid and turned back, wiping his hands.
"Although I am technically in the employ of Roman Sionis, his asking me to come and crash your little soirée tonight was just happy coincidence. I am here because I like to think of myself as a conduit. A conduit for fire, Mr. Maroni. Now fire, as you know, is indiscriminate. It does not spare the rich, or the poor. The strong, or the weak. It takes as it pleases. But you will find if you do your research, Mr. Maroni,"
He leaned in close,
"That it has a particular hunger for the wicked."

He cracked his knuckles.
"Now, I really hate to do this, but I'm afraid I can't leave anything to chance..."
The old man screamed as a steel toe broke his shin.
"I do apologize, it's really rather barbaric of me, but sometimes principles must be overruled briefly."
The apparition took out his lighter again, an elegant brass piece, embossed with a simple picture of a fly.
"And now I must bid you adieu, Mr. Maroni."
He lit one of the wooden chairs lying on the floor, and watched for a moment as the floor quickly began to catch.
A single tear slid down his face.
He turned and strode back to the door, stopping before he left the building to call once more over his shoulder.
"Stay warm Mr. Maroni."
Then he left, blocking the door with an oil drum.

The warehouse was quickly catching fire behind him as he walked cheerfully away, tossing his fly-themed lighter in the air and catching it again, and singing to himself.

"Love, is a burning thing..."